Challenged by Women: ... and a Few Good Men

By Shirley Bathgate

Plenty of womenand a few good menhave made Shirley Bathgate into the woman she is today.

In this autobiography/memoir, she relives her childhood in Detroit, where she enjoyed exploring the alleys and playing at the big fire station at the end of her block with her brother and cousin.

But life wasnt without hardships. After her father completed basic training, he was shipped overseas, where he spent almost a month going from unit to unit until he winded up at the last major battle of World War IIthe Battle of the Bulgewhere he died December 21, 1944, in his first real day of action.

As an adult, she went on vacation to more than twenty countries in Eastern and Western Europe, South America, Asia, two former Soviet Central Asian republics, Africa, Australia, New Zealand, and Fiji.

She shares her experiences as a missionary in ten countries with six different mission organizations, including her work helping missionary James Kilgore photograph and interview women from the Central Asian republics who converted from Islam to Christianity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 29, 2016
• ISBN: 9781480836280

Shirley Bathgate

Shirley Bathgate has earned a bachelor’s degree in education, a master’s degree in library science, and a seminary master’s in intercultural communication. She was the Protestant reference librarian in the philosophy, education, and religion departments at Detroit’s Main Library.

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Copyright © 2016 Shirley Bathgate.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Scripture taken from the Holy Bible, NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide. Used by permission. NEW INTERNATIONAL VERSION® and NIV® are registered trademarks of Biblica, Inc. Use of either trademark for the offering of goods or services requires the prior written consent of Biblica US, Inc.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-3627-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-3628-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016914017

Archway Publishing rev. date: 10/05/2016

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

In The Beginning

Chapter 2

Growing Up in Detroit

Chapter 3

College Years

Chapter 4

Oklahoma

Chapter 5

New Life in Christ

Chapter 6

National Geographic Live

Chapter 7

Serving God Cross Culturally

Chapter 8

Friendship

Chapter 9

Back to School

Chapter 10

Finishing With Prayer

CHAPTER 1

In The Beginning

Each of us six billion plus individuals on this planet called Earth has a story to tell. No man (or woman) is an island. (John Donne [1572-1630] Meditation XVII). More significantly, The Lord God said, It is not good for the man to be alone; I will make a helper suitable for him.’"(Genesis 2:18).

Every good story needs a cast of characters because each one of us interacts with other human beings from the moment of our births. We are all formed by the interactions we have in life with other human beings. All but the most extremely casual interactions will deeply affect us, changing us forever, for better or worse. Therefore as I tell my story, I will tell bits and pieces of the stories of many others who interacted with me.

Grandma was born in Minnesota in a very devout German Lutheran family and most of her numerous brothers were ordained ministers. My grandfather came from a German-Polish Catholic family in Wisconsin. Grandpa worked as a cook in lumbering camps in Wisconsin and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula before joining the navy shortly after the start of World War I.

My grandparents became pen-pals during World War I They exchanged many letters during that lengthy war and planned to meet as soon as grandpa returned stateside. Their first meeting was storybook love at first sight, and they married almost immediately. Jobs were scarce. Opportunities were limited in both Wisconsin and Minnesota, but automobile factories had replaced defense plants and were booming in Detroit. The newly married couple spent a little time with both their families in Minnesota and Wisconsin before making the move to Detroit where they bought their first home. Grandpa was a man of many talents who loved working with his hands. After hours of boring but good paying work in the factory adding the same part to each car passing his work station, grandpa went home and worked on enlarging their home as three daughters were born, each demanding more living space.

My parents met on a double date. They were each dating the other person in the dating couple, but both felt the attraction almost immediately and switched partners. Dad was two years older, already a high school graduate and working as a commercial artist. Mom was a high school junior longing for a chance to attend college, but accepting the reality that her parents couldn’t afford to help her make that a reality. My parents dated secretly for over a year because mom’s parents would not have approved of an older man who might have kept my mother from graduating from high school. My parents finally secretly married in a civil ceremony before the start of mom’s senior year. My grandparents eventually realized that my parents were dating and that my mother was in love with my father. Grandma and grandpa were relieved when Mom promised her parents that she would graduate from Detroit’s Eastern High School.

It wasn’t long before mom was pregnant with me, but she stayed in school and worked hard hiding her pregnancy from both parents and school authorities. A Memorial Day picnic at Whitmore Lake marked the beginning of pre-graduation activities. Whitmore Lake was my parents’ favorite place for fun in the sun. Since I wasn’t expected until mid-June, my parents decided to join in all the fun. I’m never late and even my arrival into the world was early. But by May 31st, mom could no longer hide her secret. She was in labor! There was no doubt she was about to give birth; there was no time to get to a hospital or even to call a doctor. They just barely managed to get back home in time for my frightened and untrained grandmother to deliver her first grandchild. Grandma and mom were doing just fine until grandma panicked seeing my face covered with a layer of extra skin (probably part of the placenta) and no breathing sounds coming from me. Grandma recovered quickly and removed the extra skin, but I still wasn’t breathing and grandma thought I was dying.

My grandparents were both deeply religious, and grandma had converted to Catholicism when she married my grandfather. As a Catholic, grandma believed I would never get into heaven if I died without being baptized, so she wasted no time. Grandma partially filled a glass with water and poured it over as she baptized me in the name of Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. I’m not sure if God intervened or if the cold water shocked me, but something did the trick. I protested with a yelp and a breath that turned a scary moment into family joy. The Darga family had their first grandchild! Lots more would follow as mom’s two sisters married and had children.

As soon as mom graduated from high school, my parents moved us into an apartment on Sheridan Street in Detroit’s inner city, just a few blocks from Detroit’s beautiful island park, Belle Isle. My father was passionate about flying, and Dad took flying lessons at Detroit City Airport.

Mom took me and later Kirk as well along as she watched my father practice take-offs and landings. She heated our bottles in the small airport cafeteria. When my dad got his pilot’s license, he and three friends, formed a club The Strato Club. The guys pooled their money and bought an airplane flying out of Detroit’s city Airport. Each club member owned the plane one week a month. Over time, the Strato Club members bought additional planes until each member owned his own plane and the club was dissolved, although the club members remained friends for years until separated by World War II.

On my dad’s first week of temporary ownership, we flew to Muskegon, Michigan where his sister (my aunt Betty and Uncle Jack) lived. They lived right across the road from the wonderful sand dunes and beautiful Lake Michigan. Over the years, it was one of my favorite vacation spots. My favorite activity was skiing down those sand dunes on summer vacations even though falling on the and with lots of exposed skin since we wore shorts and tee-shirts could be a little rough. Uncle Jack always said it toughened us and taught us to tolerate a bit of pain. While skinned arms and legs were never fun, time proved Uncle Jack right.

Uncle Jack was a metallurgical engineer and foundry owner, and true outdoorsman who loved fishing and hunting with his three sons. The United States entered World War II after the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor. Life changed abruptly as War swept over us. We no longer spent our weekends at City Airport watching Dad fly sweeping over, under and through the clouds. My dad was deferred through most of that war, both because he had two small children and even more because he had a defense job. Dad drew pictures of tanks, piece by piece in scale demonstrating how to take the tanks apart and put them back together when battlefield repairs were necessary.

Dad was a gifted artist and dreamed of becoming a cartoonist. In his spare time, he customized his five cars and those of friends with artistic pin-stripping and custom designs, frequently with paintings of wives or girlfriends.

In mid-1944, dad was finally drafted and sent off to basic training at Fort Benning, Georgia. He had to sell his airplane and the five cars he owned and had customized. Dad now had to trade his drafting and cartooning equipment for an army rifle.

As soon as dad left for basic training, mom, Kirk and I left our small apartment on Sheridan Street, a few short blocks from Belle Isle, the beautiful island park in the Detroit River and moved into my grandparents’ crowded home several miles away, but also on Detroit’s eastside. Mom’s younger sister, Dixie, and her large family lived across the street on the third floor of a small apartment in a large apartment building.

Cousin Gary was just a year younger than my brother Kirk, who was Gary’s best friend. Gary was always very happy to escape his brothers and sisters and enjoy the better food and extra space at Grandma and Grandpa’s house. Aunt Dixie, Uncle Bob, and the rest of the Walter family, except for Gary, didn’t spend very much time with us at grandma and grandpa’s house, probably because Aunt Dixie was nearly always pregnant or nursing a newborn infant. Both my grandparents were excellent cooks, and grandpa cooked like he was still feeding big lumberjacks. We all especially loved Grandpa’s cookies. His cookie jar was an old five pound Better Maid potato chip can, and his cookie jar was always full even when money was a little tight.

All through World War II mom worked in a defense plant operating a drill press that pushed out barrels of defense parts instead of auto parts. While mom didn’t help build military airplanes, she was a true Rosie the Riveter. Mom’s fellow workers gave her a tough time because her efforts always exceeded the quotas set by the factory bosses. Mom’s argument was that although she had no idea what her parts were for, she always believed that one of her parts might be what would be needed to save my father’s life.

Grandpa had worked in factory building Dodge cars, but he lost his job when the factories switched to building tanks rather than cars. Money was tight but grandpa hunted small game and grew food in the backyard. He was also a great handyman and could usually earn a few extra bucks building or fixing something for a neighbor.

Grandma worked at J. L. Hudson, Detroit’s largest downtown department store. Grandma worked in the fourth basement as a packer. Grandma packaged and gift-wrapped, expensive glassware and candy, as well as many other fragile items for delivery in the store trucks. In those days, employees were generally honest and trusted, and the packers were allowed to retrieve salvageable items from the trash barrels. More often than not, grandma came home with some treasure from those reject barrels. Our favorite, as you can probably guess, was delicious candy from fancy but damaged or broken boxes.

Hudson’s large twelfth floor auditorium hosted many fashion shows and the walls were always covered with huge fancy drapes, which were always taken down and discarded after every special event. Those drapes, like so many other things were deposited in the refuse barrels in the fourth basement where grandma worked. Those drapes were too large and too heavy for grandma, but she and other packers would pull them out of the barrels and cut those drapes into manageable pieces which they would take home. I slept under many blankets and bedspreads made from those salvaged materials. Grandma also made us dresses and coats from those salvaged materials. Sometimes Grandma even made new suits for grandpa from those treasures. We were always proudly dressed for Sunday mass at Nativity Church.

Mom’s youngest sister, Aunt Dorothy also lived with us. Dorothy, or Dot as she preferred to be called, had a nice bedroom in the attic grandpa made for her. The rest of the large, partially finished attic was a great place for Kirk, Gary and me to play as long as grandma wasn’t stretching and drying the living room lace curtains in our play room.

Dot was a teenager, nine years my senior, when we moved into grandma and grandpa’s house on Rohns street. Dot seemed to take a special interest in me. I guess it was because I was a girl. I think Dot sometimes thought she was my mother, or big sister at least. Dot was always finding something I couldn’t do very well, and demanding that I sit at her feet until I mastered the task. My toughest lesson was learning how to tie my shoes. I’ll admit I really struggled with that task and Dot got tired of my requests for assistance.

Grandma’s kitchen chairs were wooden with three round poles going from the back of the seat to the arched top. Dot pulled out a large scarf which she wrapped around two of the poles and tied. Dot tied and retied the scarf as if it was a shoelace repeatedly, and then she’d make me try. I grasped the idea quickly, but I was a slow learner developing skills that required manual dexterity. Dot and I were both nervous as I practiced, because we knew we’d both be in trouble if we were still in teacher-student mode when grandma got home from work at J.L. Hudson. It took several hours of Dot’s teaching and my practicing before I finally did master the shoe-tying task.

In those days, employees were generally honest and trusted, and the packers were allowed to retrieve salvageable items from the trash barrels. Grandma never learned to drive, and my grandparents could never have afforded a second car, so grandma took the bus or streetcar home from downtown. More often than not, grandma came home with some treasure from those reject barrels. Our favorite, as you can probably guess, was delicious candy from fancy, but damaged or broken boxes.

Hudson’s large auditorium hosted many fashion shows in the big auditorium on one of the upper floors and the walls were always covered with huge fancy drapes, which were always taken down and discarded after every fancy event. The drapes, like so many other things were deposited in the refuse barrels in the fourth basement where grandma worked. Those drapes were too large and too heavy for grandma, but she and other packers would pull out and cut them into manageable pieces which the packers would take home. I slept under many blankets and bedspreads made from those salvaged materials. Grandma also made us all dresses and coats from those salvaged materials. Sometimes Grandma even made a new suit for grandpa from those treasures. We were always proudly dressed for Sunday mass at Nativity Church.

My closest companions in those early years were my brother, Kirk, and my cousin, Gary. We were all born in Detroit during World War II. Detroit was a beautiful, wonderful city in those days with lots of great places to explore. Our favorite places were the alleys. Most of the alleys were actually small paved streets behind homes and apartments where trash was neatly stored in proper containers and was collected twice a week by city sanitation workers and resale collectors as well as by scavenging kids like the three of us.

Another great place to play and hang out was the big fire station at the end of our block. There was a large cemented area in front of the fire station that was perfect for roller- skating and other activities. There were few fires in Detroit in those days; people were careful, homes were well built and safe, and almost nobody deliberately set fires in those days. So the firemen were often bored and frequently came out to play with us neighborhood kids. Occasionally in the summer, we got to help firemen wash the big firetrucks. We were almost always polite and well-behaved, because the firemen knew our names and where we lived. They didn’t hesitate to call our parents if we misbehaved.

I was the oldest of our threesome, but Kirk was our unofficial leader. There were lots of children in the neighborhood, but most of them were immigrant kids from Italy and Poland. Since our ethnic background was largely German, most of the kids treated us as enemies. No matter how hard we tried, we rarely succeeded in winning their friendship. The pain of the rejection and prejudice we experienced in those early days marked us, but it taught us to develop attitudes of inclusion, fairness, and a desire to fight against any type of prejudice we encountered.

While I thoroughly enjoyed playing with Kirk and Gary, they were both outgoing extraverts and I was a bookish introvert, so my real best friend for most of those first five or six years was my maternal grandmother. My grandparents subscribed to several magazines and my favorite was National Geographic. I would sit for hours enjoying pictures of far-away places and many different kinds of people. Gramma would often sit with me and we’d talk about people and places, and often the strange objects in the pictures. Grandma had a vivid imagination and would make up wonderful stories about the pictures, but she also made me tell stories about what I’d seen in those magazine pictures.

Grandma also introduced me to the Mark Twain Public Library, the closet library to her house. As long as I lived in Detroit, the Mark Twain Library was my favorite. The building reminded me of a medieval castle. I was already passionate about history. I also loved to sit on the library window seats and read instead of at table like most people.

I already knew I was somehow a little different from most kids, and I quickly learned to like that difference with a little help from my somewhat different grandmother. And I knew that I would have to travel someday to see some of the places I’d only seen so far in pictures, and to get to know the people who lived in those places. I wanted to know and understand what made us different and what made us the same.

My paternal grandparents were completely different from my mother’s parents. They lived in a tiny house in a very quiet neighborhood in Dearborn, west of Detroit. Their ethnic backgrounds, like most Americans, were quite a mix. My grandmother was a very austere, proud woman of predominately English and Scottish descent. Her English predecessors arrived in the colonies before the American Revolution, and Martha was extremely proud of her membership in the Daughters of the American Revolution and was constantly displeased with my refusal to join their ranks. Grandmother (never grandma) never told me much about her Scottish heritage, but proudly wore her Royal Stuart tartan to every Scottish festival event.

My paternal grandparents came from a more privileged background than my mom’s parents, but the Great Depression had hit them hard. Granddad (he was never Grandpa) had been a CPA, but now repaired vacuums in a basement shop in Wyandotte. Grandmother was proud and granddad was one of the most humble men I’ve ever known. I learned a lot from both of them. Grandmother took me to art museums, ballets, concerts and once even to a birthday celebration for Henry Ford at their estate.

I never knew how much education my grandmother had completed, but she was always taking classes and learning. She studied ballet, art, music and foreign languages. Grandmother spoke all the Romance languages plus several dialects spoken in only a few Swiss cantons, which was how she was connected to Mr. Ford. Grandmother played both piano and violin in the Wyandotte symphony orchestra, and a few of her paintings hung in Dearborn art galleries.

Grandmother had more than two hundred complete outfits in her closet with shoes, jewelry, hats, gloves all carefully catalogued on three by five cards. She looked so much like England’s Queen Elizabeth that people often turned to give her a second look.

But my grandmother didn’t have a stove or a refrigerator.