Conversations with Dad: Stories of Love, Family and Architecture

By Deborah Wenzler Farris and William P. Wenzler FAIA

What do you do when youve lost a parent and the other is suddenly alone? Deborah Wenzler Farris started spending lots of time with her dad, William (Bill) Wenzler. This book is the result and tells a universal story. It is layered with the authors personal account of her walk with her parents as they aged and their health declined. Rich with memories of her fathers life adventures and career as a noted architect, Conversations with Dad grew out of time spent togetherfather and daughtergoing to church, sharing meals and the stories of those who paved the way for her. Told with tenderness and humor, it is a love storythe love of a man for his wife and family, his love for his work and church, and the love of a daughter for her mom and dad.

Wenzler, a designer of beautiful, practical buildings who loved a Lord who makes practical beautiful people out of failing feeble sinnersand loved those people too. You will love this book!

Stuart Briscoe, Minister at Large Elmbrook Church

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Jun 8, 2017
• ISBN: 9781512763348

Deborah Wenzler Farris

Deborah Wenzler Farris was born and raised in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. She is executive director of Danceworks Inc., an award-winning nonprofit arts organization serving the Milwaukee region. Farris began her career in theatre. After twenty years and forty-seven moves across the country, she bumped into her husband, an old friend from high school, one night during a snowstorm while home over Christmas. They married in 1999, and she returned to Milwaukee with her son, Charlie. Several years later, they bought the house she grew up in, where they currently reside with their dog and cat—Sam and Mary. That encounter on the street corner in a snowstorm led to a homecoming that made this book possible.

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Copyright © 2017 Deborah Wenzler Farris with .

Cover design by Lisa Wenzler

Edited by Shelly Esser

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WestBow Press

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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: 978-1-5127-6333-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6332-4 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6334-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016920502

WestBow Press rev. date:      06/23/2017

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Dad and Sam

For my son Charlie

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See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up;

do you not perceive it?

I am making a way in the desert

and streams in the wasteland.

Isaiah 43:19

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Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Part One: A Look Back to Look Forward

Soldier in the Distance

Dad’s Childhood—Building Character

Pastor or Architect?

A Love Story Begins

Cutting Oats

Wedding Veil

You Gotta Have Faith

Staying Afloat

Part Two: Firm Foundation

A Firm of My Own

Not a Coincidence

Six Shells and a Ship

Part Three: Fellowship and Family

A China Cup of Love

Fellowship and Family

Inspired by European Architects

British Hospitality

A Fair to Remember

Crossing the Soviet Border

What a Wife!

Part Four: Trailblazing

Who Would Name a Dog Assy?

Amazing Places

Horse Stories

Horsing Around

Merging Church and Life

Simple Material Made Noble

A Spirited Boy

The Ash Can

Part Five: Back to the City

Back to the City

Disruption to Joy

Equal Opportunity in Architecture

The Church in a Hill

Which Way to Jeremiah Wamachio’s Compound?

Part Six: Veil of Beauty

Trip to the Island

Dolores

Birth Veil

There is a Place of Quiet Rest

Lost and Found

Angels and Burgers

Don’t Forget the Fruits

The List

A Walk Outside

Always with You

Lifted Veil

Part Seven: Run with the Storm

Path to the Water

What does GPS Mean?

Run with the Storm

A Kind Lady

Is the Sleeping Bag Dry?

Oxygen is Low, Time to Go!

Shipwrecked

Memorial Weekend

Everything Has a Story

Who Says You’re Getting Old?

Not Losing Hope

Part Eight: Flying Lessons

Learning to Fly

Home Safe

Flying Lessons

Preparing for Landing

Reflection

Part Nine: The Edge of Glory

Well-Rested

Shoes at the Door

Bookends of Laughter

The Last Chapter

Addendum

Acknowledgements

conversations

with dad

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Foreword

Do you know a man or woman of such courage that when all odds are stacked against them, they see the way through, and step up and say, Okay, I’ll lead the way.? Even more importantly, will you follow? Those who have gone before us are not behind us, but ahead.

This book gives us a window into the life of a family and, in many ways, into mine and yours as well. Times have changed and will continue to change. We assume progress, but are we stronger or better today? Some in previous generations had an inner strength many are still searching for. What strength did they have because of their struggles, and how did they learn to work out their relationships by the necessity for survival? Are we willing to take off our lenses of pride and progress to listen to those who cut the path and know the way? Bill Wenzler and his wife Dolores are two people who have cut the path and who devoted their lives to building a strong faith, family, and career.

The stories told here portray them with delight and in reality. Bill and Dolores never had an easy life, but they did have a full and joyful one built on faith, hope, and love. They persevered and saw the beauty of God’s patient building throughout their entire lives. As the years went by, they became sweeter, they kept the finish line in view, and they knew the value of building good relationships.

I love how these stories show us Bill’s gracious effort to have the fruits with you: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness and self-control (Galatians 5:22-23), even when dealing with an ornery client or a difficult person. He would say, we want these friends to become better people, not beat them down. These are wise words to live by and just a sampling of the wisdom from the pages of this book. Their daughter, Deborah, gives us insight into her mother’s precious discovery near the end of her life: People need hope, even if it’s just for a day.

Conversations with Dad challenges us to really appreciate those people who have shaped us, and also to consider the influence we can have on those who follow behind us.

Nancy Erickson

Pastor, teacher, missionary

Introduction

What do you do when you’ve lost a parent and the other is getting old?

I started spending a lot more time with my dad and it led to him telling me stories from his life. This book is the result.

My dad, William (Bill) Wenzler—Eagle Scout, painter, AIA Fellow architect/engineer, pilot, sailor, husband, father and man of faith—lived a long and interesting life. Over a span of four years, he told me stories about growing up in Milwaukee’s Riverwest neighborhood just after the Great Depression. He thought he was going to be a pastor but with his quick aptitude for math and skill in shop class, his dad and a high school teacher encouraged him to become an architect. He attended the University of Illinois and that’s where he met a very pretty girl from Lanark, Illinois—my mom, Dolores Rahn.

Over the next sixty-one years, they raised four children, traveled with three toddlers in a VW Bug and a tent across Europe while Dad studied architecture on a fellowship, lived on a farm with horses and other animals, sailed together, and finally built their beloved cabin on Washington Island, where they spent many happy days.

After Mom died in 2011, Dad and I naturally spent more time together. We talked a lot. Dad was a natural story teller. It all started unexpectedly one night over a fish fry on my husband’s birthday. Todd had taken Dad and me to a new restaurant called The Filling Station on Wright and Pierce in Riverwest, Milwaukee, which happened to be next to the house Dad was born in. Dad told us the restaurant had been called Charlie’s when he was a boy, and that he and his family would go there every Friday night for a fish fry.

The horse-drawn carriages delivered milk to the homes in my neighborhood… he said, and I scribbled his story down on my napkin. I didn’t want to forget it, so I did what anyone else would have done in my situation—posted it on Facebook. That began a series of weekly stories which grew into my blog called, Sundays with Dad. Sundays were our day together. We’d go to church and have lunch, which inevitably brought with it more stories. I began writing about our time together and threading in stories I’d written about my mom’s life—an accomplished pianist and singer, pastor of music and worship, wife and mother—and her heroic battles with cancer. The blog reconnected us to many friends and family. I’m pretty sure, by the time I die I won’t have a single secret left, Dad said.

Our time together became adventures—even trips to the doctor. And the storytelling kept Dad going. Debbie, I am ready for Jesus to take me home, he said during one of his many bouts with pneumonia. But I told Him I sure would like to stick around for a while because I have more stories to tell! And he did—almost long enough to see the final draft of my manuscript.

I hope you have as much fun reading it as we did reliving the stories of Dad’s life and spending time together.

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The drawings replicated in this book

are printed with thanks to and permission by

the Milwaukee Public Library.

Part One:

A Look Back to Look Forward

Soldier in the Distance

The snowstorm pressed icy winds against the drafty old Midwestern farmhouse sending moans throughout its walls and floorboards. Cold air worked its way in through the window frames. Whirls of snow blew in the air and across the field to the west. By mid-afternoon, what had seemed cozy earlier became confining for three little kids.

When the snow stopped and the sun peered through the thick gray quilt of a sky, reflecting a glistening bed of snow waiting to be jumped on, Mom quieted our rambunctious voices long enough to say, Enough! Get your snowsuits on. Twenty minutes later, my two brothers and I were out the door. Capped, zipped, and booted.

We marched up the hill to the stone road behind the gate at the top of the driveway, laughing, thrilled to be in the fresh air and stomping through the deep drifts of snow. Mom was happy to have our energy released in a space large enough to contain it. My older brother, Ed, trudged on ahead while my younger brother, John and I fell backwards together into the soft white blanket of fluff and waved our arms and legs. Eddie, look! Angels! we called out, but he was already busy making a fort. Preferring his project to ours, we made our way over to him and all worked together.

It wasn’t long though before the sun tucked itself back behind the weighty clouds and the wind started up again. Concerned by the ominous, sudden change in the wind’s direction, Mom pulled our scarves up over our chins. She gathered Johnny up in one arm and took hold of my hand in the other. Eddie! she called out through the wind. Let’s go back.

His dark eyelashes blinked away snow, Okay, he shouted. I’ll lead the way!

He led us back up the road. Our trip was quicker coming than going, as it often is. John tucked his head into Mom’s collar and I kept mine down out of the sleet and wind as she guided my steps. What if we don’t make it back, someone asked as the wind was doing its best to push us the opposite direction we were headed.

Come on, guys! Ed shouted, looking up the road in the distance like a little soldier.

As we neared the house, we could see the glass in the upper panel of the storm door rattling. The yellow light from the kitchen glowed against the darkening sky and filled the window like a lamp, beckoning us inside.

Ed was wrestling with the doorknob, his hands working hard inside icy mittens. With a swift kick of his sturdy little leg, the old storm door flew open and with frozen fingers and toes, we were all once again safe inside the womb of warmth we called home.

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Now, fifty years later, the sky was black, but the sun was threatening to rise beyond the houses in the distance. What had once been spans of open pasture was layered with expensive homes. Ed now owned the old farmhouse. He built an addition and raised his two sons there.

My husband, Todd, and I followed my parents’ car up the long drive we sled down as kids. Dad would put bales of hay at the bottom of it so we wouldn’t fly across the street that had an occasional passing car. Mom’s peony bushes stood like shadowy figures across the lawn—the blooms, crinkled and colorless, in the cold November air. We walked through the same door Ed had kicked open all those years before, helping us in out of the storm. But now the storm was within us. Amongst the sounds of sobbing, I saw Dad walk to the room where Ed’s body lay. I followed behind and stood in the hallway that connected the living and dining rooms where we had chased a sheep named Waggles around, against Mom’s better wishes.

Dad knelt down and taking Ed’s still warm hand, leaned over and kissed his forehead. I thought of Abraham and his great love for his son Isaac. I felt I was witnessing a sacred rite of passage, a holy sacrament—a father’s final gesture of love for his son on earth, releasing him to his heavenly Father.

It was the calm assurance of faith within Dad that made its impression on me once again. His faith had guided me throughout my life, pointing me towards the life beyond the life we know on earth. His own father had done the same for him.

I think of my brother Ed, like a soldier on the road in the distance, leading the way for Mom and the rest of us. I can almost hear his voice, Guys, look, Angels! calling us toward the door he has already entered, away from danger and all grief. The glow of that Light against the darkness shines like a lamp, beckoning us all onward.

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Snowstorm on the farm.

Dad’s Childhood—Building Character

The horse-drawn carriages delivered milk to the homes in my neighborhood. The horses would automatically know which houses to make the stops as they made their way up and down the streets. One day, I was on my way to Fratney Street School and I gave one of the horses a carrot. The horse learned very quickly where to get his treat, and after that would stop at the same spot each day and look around. The street curbs were made out of Lannon Stone. My Great Grandpa Froemming laid the stone for the curbs. But he eventually caught pneumonia and died young.

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Billy Wenzler

The city would come with a Mack truck tractor. It pulled four garbage dumpster wagons to drop off in the neighborhood. The horses pulled the dumpster wagons to collect garbage from the garbage cans in alleys behind the homes. That’s one of the main reasons we have alleys. It was only later on that garages could be accessed off the street. There were two types of city pickups—garbage and ashes. Most homes were heated by coal-burning furnaces, so men would go into the basements and collect ashes from the ash bins, usually in concrete enclosures. Grandpa always gave the ash men a beer.

Because we didn’t have refrigerators back then, we had ice boxes that were kept in the hallway so the icemen wouldn’t have to come into the houses to fill the icebox. We would get a 50 to 60-pound chunk of ice which would last the week. The ice-house was on the east side of the Milwaukee River and the north side of North Avenue. It was called, Northwestern Coal and Ice. Originally, they would cut the ice out of the river and then store it there. They used an ice pick and when they wanted some, they’d just pick it off. They cut blocks of ice out of Lake Michigan and put it in the ice house on big beds of sawdust.

Every house had a coal bin under a window in the basement. The coal truck had a mechanical system, which would raise the bed of the truck to get the coal up to the height of the shoulder of the coal man. He’d put on his shoulder pad, take his canvas bushel bag, and fill it with coal. He’d get just enough to fill the canvas bags. He’d open a basement window and put a canvas protector around the window so he wouldn’t get the house all dirty. Then he’d place a shoot into the coal bin. He’d get that set up, and then he’d dump the coal in so it would slide down into the coal bin.

My parents only had eighth-grade educations. That was pretty common in those days. I was born at the end of the big era of the roaring 20s. My grandmother served as a midwife. When I was about to be born, my Uncle Eugene’s wife Lillian saw the lights on in our house from across the street early in the morning, so she called Mom. Birds! What’s going on over there? Mom’s full name was Bertha Rosa Marta Froeming Wenzler and she often went by Birdie. I think we are going to have a baby, she said. The doctor came with his black bag and told them to get newspapers and warm water. This was needed to wash the baby. Eventually, I was born. My dad proudly presented me to my big brother, Gordy, who was five. Here is your new brother! he said.

Where did he come from? Gordy asked the doctor. Didn’t you see that black bag I brought in with me? I brought him in that bag! And that was Gordy’s introduction to sex education.

We moved in with my mother’s mother, Grandma Froemming, on 3340 North Pierce Street a few years later. It was close to where my dad worked—Andres Stone and Marble Company. When Dad finished eighth grade, he went to business school to become a stenographer. He learned shorthand and was good at it. They eventually moved him into the estimating department, so he moved a step up. When I think back to how much my dad did with that eighth-grade education, it astounds me.

The Great Depression started October 1929. After that everything was different. One of the fixtures of this era was the ragman with his horse-drawn cart saying, Rrrags! Rrrags! as he walked down the alleys. He had so many different things on his wagon—things people had gotten rid of. He would take them and find a buyer. I remember so well him coming down our alley and Mom saying, Do you have a bed? The ragman got a bedspring out along with an old mattress. So Mom settled up with him and then my grandmother said, Get out the turpentine.

What do we need that for? Mom asked.

To kill the bedbugs!

After the bed was soaked, scrubbed, dried, and aired it was moved upstairs to the front bedroom Gordy and I shared overlooking Pierce Street.

When we got a little older, there was a roof out the bedroom window we could climb onto. Gordy had a crystal set. He would string the antennae out over the roof. There was a little handle over the crystal and you could move it around and pick up radio stations. We would take turns listening on our headphones.

Gordy had a Milwaukee Journal paper route and because the Sunday paper was always so heavy, Dad would help him by driving the car. Many times after the papers were delivered, Dad would go to visit his folks on Booth and Wright streets. Grandpa worked at Milwaukee Drug Company on St. Paul Avenue downtown. The building is still there. He was the night watchman. He carried a 32 pistol and was also the fireman that kept the stokers full of coal to heat the building. I remember being along with Dad and Gordy on one of the visits and seeing Grandpa with this huge scoop coal shovel, filling the stokers. Gordy asked if he could try it and, after three shovelfuls, he handed it back. Dad took it and, while he did better than Gordy, he handed it back too. Grandpa was really strong. He always walked to work on St. Paul Avenue and Milwaukee Street. Uncle Eugene worked at Kiekhefer Elevator close to 27th and Clyborne streets. He walked to work too.

My parents were both active in the church. Since Dad knew shorthand, he was asked to be the secretary of the church council because he could do the minutes. Mom was a leader in the women’s group, loved poetry, and helped plan the services. They modeled honesty and truth because of their faith. These qualities were also reflected in my teachers at vacation Bible school, Sunday school, and at Fratney Street School. I would sit on the floor in front of our console radio and listen to the series of after-school radio programs. The Lone Ranger, Jack Armstrong, Tom Mix, The Shadow (who would say, ‘The weed of crime bears bitter fruit, only the Shadow knows…"). They all bore the same message—good over evil.

When our church decided to sponsor a Boy Scout troop, Dad and Gordy moved from Troop 78 at Fratney School to Troop 14 at Grace Church, and Dad became scoutmaster. An active scoutmaster, Tom Terry, who was not a member of the church, became assistant scoutmaster. Tom had a vast background in scouting and made a tremendous impact leading the troop. I learned how to paddle and sail a canoe at Indian Mound Reservation Boy Scout Camp. One of the men in his scout troop had an Old Town wooden canoe in his garage. I found out the man wanted it for his son. I happened to notice it needed a new canvas. I asked him if he would let me use it until his son grew up, and I would re-canvas it. He agreed. We had moved to Humboldt Avenue by then so it was easy to carry the boat from the garage to the Milwaukee River. I would tie the paddles to the thwarts, turn the boat over so it would rest on my shoulders, and take it down to the river. I liked to get it out when things started to thaw in the spring because there would be big sheets of