Dancing with Mystery: Reflections on One Man's Journey

By Raymond H. Dressler

This book is about mysteries—the mysteries which confront and confound every one of us. They come into focus when we ponder how to respond successfully to the proverbial “speed bumps in the road” of our lives. There are no quick or certain answers. The challenge is in the process of dealing with them.

The author asserts that we have essentially three choices. When encountering these mysteries, we can choose to (1) wrestle with them, (2) dance with them, or (3) wrestle with them while we dance.

This is Ray Dressler’s first and only book. New to this endeavor, and enthusiastically encouraged by his children to write it because they want their children and grandchildren to learn about his interesting career, he accepted the challenge. After seventeen years, his work is complete.

He begins, where else, with his earliest childhood recollections. Having no idea whatsoever where his journey will take him, he invites his reader to walk along with him through his life’s adventures to the day when he retires from his naval career aboard the historic USS Constitution (“Old Ironsides”) in Boston Harbor

His career is unique because he begins his professional studies in electrical engineering and architectural design. In his second year of college, however, called by God, he switches to philosophy and theology and begins his studies for the pastoral ministry.

His theme is, as the title declares, Dancing With Mystery. His conviction is, “Mysteries remain mysteries, until God is brought into the mix.” As he pursues his dream, he becomes aware of an additional truth, that “coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

• Language: English
• Publisher: Christian Faith Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Aug 3, 2022
• ISBN: 9798886162967

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Dancing with Mystery

Reflections on One Man's Journey

Raymond H. Dressler, Jr.

Copyright © 2022 by Raymond H. Dressler, Jr.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Christian Faith Publishing

832 Park Avenue

Meadville, PA 16335

www.christianfaithpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

EARLIEST CHILDHOOD MEMORIES

GRADE SCHOOL DAYS

THE END OF WORLD WAR II

HIGH SCHOOL YEARS

OFF TO COLLEGE—FALL SEMESTER

FRESHMAN YEAR—CHRISTMAS AND SPRING 

SEMESTER

A SUMMER TO REMEMBER

NOTHING VENTURED, NOTHING GAINED

HILLSIDE COMMUNITY CHURCH

POYNETTE AND INCH METHODIST CHURCHES

GRACE UNITED METHODIST CHURCH

GRADUATION DAY/ORDINATION

SAUK CENTRE/OSAKIS METHODIST CHURCHES

HIGH SCHOOL YEARS

This book is dedicated to those who gave me life, love, encouragement,

and sustained me throughout my entire life.

My wife, Nancy

My mother, Grace Mary

My loving in laws:

George and Elizabeth Landor

and

My four wonderful children

Diana Carol

Jane Elise

Scott David

Daniel Raymond

God loves them all…and so do I.

Preface

This is a book about mysteries—the mysteries I’ve encountered in my lifetime. They are legion. I know I am not alone in often raising the question: What in the world is going on here? What’s the meaning of this? Or the most frustrating and often devastating Why is this happening to me? Or in those rare moments when we acknowledge we are probably responsible for our dilemma How in God’s name did I get myself into this? Why can’t our world be made up of simple black and white issues and/or choices? My world has turned gray. When oh when will the fog clear?

Because we search and simply cannot understand or find an answer or solution to our quandary, in our feeling of disappointment we are tempted to dump these experiences into the mental bin we call mysteries and often leave them there hoping they’ll either go away or solve themselves. Or better yet, one day the light goes on, the mystery is solved, and we experience the divine aha! Now I understand. Why didn’t I think of that before?

But unfortunately, more often than not, they do not go away. They continue to haunt us until we understand them, explain them away with some interpretation or rationalization, or we may simply attempt to disregard them altogether. But to our dismay the mysteries don’t go away for good. They simply go into hiding waiting to come back to the surface confronting us once again at some unsuspecting moment; once again demanding exploration. God gets the credit for this process and thank goodness for it! It was His divine intention that human beings should be a searching and inquisitive lot. So it always is that deep down inside we really want to know why. Solving the mysteries of the universe in general, and in our own personal lives in particular, is a challenge we all embrace to a lesser or greater extent.

Now, there are two general axioms I wish to address at the very outset of this book relative to our topic. The first has to do with our approach to each one of the mysteries we encounter. The greater the mystery, the more profound the challenge. And as the challenge intensifies, the potential for disappointment, frustration, anger and sometimes even downright hostility increases.

First axiom: our approach. I was assigned as a navy chaplain on the staff of the United States Naval Academy, Annapolis, Maryland. My tour lasted from July 1973 to August 1977. It was a truly wonderful opportunity to serve American youth who were among the best and the brightest of our nation. I’ll say more about my naval career later. However, I will never forget the wisdom of one of my mentors there, an Episcopal chap. He planted the seed, which I knew would one day develop and mature into the book you are about to read. As I was being given my orientation first to the grounds and facilities, and then to the rigorous schedule midshipmen and the academy staff maintain, Chaplain Murray Voth said to me, "Chaplain Dressler, one of the things you have to come to terms with here at the Naval Academy is tradition. It permeates the existence and the life of everything and everyone here. It’s like bumping up against a wall. And when you hit it and look up to see how high or how wide it is…you won’t be able to see the top or the sides. So don’t get excited about trying to climb over or go around it. No one can. It’s just bigger than all of us. Tradition! It’s like a giant octopus. You can’t go over it or around it, avoid it, or escape it. It’s been here since the birth of our navy and the era when great naval battles were fought by the likes of John Paul Jones. It’s been here since the very first day of classes was taught at this institution. Now, you can choose to either contest and wrestle with it, or you can dance with it. You have to make a choice. It’s up to you. But don’t forget, if you choose to wrestle, it has eight arms! Welcome aboard!"

Now don’t get me wrong. There’s nothing wrong with wrestling. It can be fun as long as your opponent is not an Octopus! There’s the rub! Wrestling with an octopus is a recipe for disaster. You never win!

Well, that so-called choice has never left my consciousness. Etched in the back of my memory bank since the day I first heard it, now I find I have lived long enough to gain, perhaps, some few insights worth sharing. Tradition, I discovered, was only one of a myriad of mysteries, which would be encountered not only at the Naval Academy, but also all along my journey. Initially, confident of my abilities and manhood I chose to wrestle. Oh how I wrestled. And then one day, reluctantly, I decided maybe dancing was worth a try. A slight but subtle shift in philosophy, for dancing could be considered a little soft-shoe wrestling, couldn’t it? Winning the contest was no longer my primary objective. Understanding the meaning of events became preeminent.

The second axiom is a theological one. It is simply this: Every mystery in the universe has a corresponding revelation. There is really nothing new in the world as we know it. All four of the gospels in the Christian Bible depict Jesus Christ not merely as the Great Teacher, but more profoundly as the Great Revealer of the truth in and about the universe in which we dwell, and the nature both of man and the God who put all of this into motion. I am of course paraphrasing here, but the authors of the gospels quote Jesus as saying, There is nothing really new here. Follow me, listen carefully to what I tell you, do exactly as I say, and trust me. I will reveal to you everything you need to know.

When we make a discovery, perhaps the cure for some dreaded disease, we think we have created something brand-new—a new medicine, a new piece of equipment or a new treatment never before known. For example, consider the creation (actually discovery) of the internal combustion engine. It transformed travel forever. It was identified as a brand-new invention. In truth the idea had always been with us simply awaiting discovery!

The reality of these truths is and always was here; right in front of us! It just takes the right motivation, time, place, discipline of thought, inquisitive mind, energy and willpower on the part of some visionary to come upon such discoveries. The truths are all here, waiting to be discovered by someone who catches the vision!

One legend about King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, tells us the invocation Arthur offered at the very first gathering of the knights was as follows:

Lord, give us the wisdom to seek the truth, the courage to pursue it, and

The will to make it endure.

I like that! From the first time I heard it, I have never forgotten that prayer. As a matter of fact, I have used it as the concluding prayer at the end of every sermon I have delivered since.

I do not mean to assert that one day we shall discover all truth about life and the universe in which we live. I believe mystery will always be with us. But not as the enemy to be conquered or necessarily subdued and overcome, but more like the silent companion who makes life interesting and challenging and even fun! It never lets us alone. The joy and reassurance is that Jesus Christ is the silent companion on the other side of our shoulders constantly encouraging, inspiring, stimulating, challenging, nurturing, and motivating us to go on—think bigger, stretch our hearts and minds, and embrace our visions, dreaming beyond the limits of our senses! As a matter of fact, it is mystery itself, which, in essence, is the great motivator. So we are invited to embrace it, explore it, dabble in it. We are indeed invited to dance with it! And that’s exactly what I plan to do! And I invite you to join me.

Lastly, reflecting back on my entire life, I realize that, like my first year in Annapolis, there were many striking parallels. That is to say, life is filled with a myriad of rules, regulations, challenges, hopes, dreams, failures, successes, disappointments, etc. Human existence is filled with mysteries large and small. Again, while I believe we should engage the mysteries that confront each of us, I began to accept the fact that we do not have to come to a complete, or even partial, understanding of all the mysteries that surround and confound us. We should wrestle with them with all of our mind and strength, of course. But we should not always expect resolutions to our quests or even clear answers to our questions. Some of them we may simply embrace as realities about life, and trust that, like St. Paul said in his letter to the Christians at Corinth: For now we see in a mirror dimly; but then face to face. Now we know in part… one day we shall fully understand, even as we have always been fully understood (1 Corinthians 13:12). Or again, as the writer to the Letter to the Hebrews says, Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not [yet] seen. (Hebrews 11:1)

So, dear family and friends, it begins. This is the book I started many years ago and have been promising to write for some time. I have to give credit, primarily to my ever faithful wife of now sixty-five years, our four wonderful children, and many dear friends. They all have been prodding me for several years now to sit down and write this book of memories before I forget them! But this book is also about my wonderful family and all the beautiful recollections I have of discovery these past eighty-five years. As a simple couplet, carved on a wooden plaque over the stairway to our family room in our townhouse reads, We may not have it altogether. But together, we have it all!

Thus I am inviting you to take a walk with me back through the pages of my life, as I recall the events that have shaped it, the people who have influenced me, and the goals, hopes, and dreams I have pursued. Most simply stated: It is my autobiography.

Part 1 of my work is divided into sections based on the mysteries I have confronted throughout my entire life, as best I can recall them. Part 2 will contain my musings about some theological issues foundational to my life and ministry, recollections, and a few of my sermons, which I hope are worthy of printing. There will be some errors, some discrepancies, and even a bit of embellishment. At the ripe old age of eighty-five, I count myself lucky when I can remember what I had for breakfast on any given day! I hope you will be patient with me and enjoy reading it. Here, then, is my dance card. Please save the last dance for me!

Acknowledgments

Iwant to express my deepest appreciation for the overall assistance I have received throughout the writing of this book from many sources. First to my dear wife, Nancy, for her unending patience and willingness to risk saying, with a red pen: I think this might read better if you write it this way. I have almost eight hundred pages of drafts before I could get the phrasing just right. Whatever success I may have will be primarily the result of her perseverance, wise, and sensitive editing.

Secondly, I want to thank each of our four children for their encouragement to get this story written and a record of these wonderful experiences down on paper before my memory takes an unplanned trip from my mind to who knows where. Diana, Jane, Scott, and Dan made it possible for me to spend twenty-four years of my life in the military serving my country. They too, each of them, served as well by keeping the home front fires burning and supporting their mom throughout every assignment I had.

Thirdly, I have been overwhelmed by the number of wonderful friends and neighbors, who also encouraged me along the way, Too many to mention, they are all a part of my story—each playing an unwitting, but influential role in making this venture even possible.

Finally, I am deeply indebted to Lieutenant General (retired) Tad Oelstrom, United States Air Force, for his diligent review of the last critical chapter of this book. It was the most significant appointment of my entire military career. Therefore, it was important to me to get the complex intricacies of each experience absolutely correct and accurately recorded. I simply could not have felt confident, without his oversight and critical review of my work, to submit it for possible publication. His supervision and perceptive mentoring during this final military assignment provided the inspiration and incentive to forge ahead, establish new relationships and create a new paradigm of cooperation among the chiefs and leaders of the NATO chaplaincies. This included the emerging eastern European nations, following the fall of the Berlin Wall. With the guidance and encouragement of people like him, as I have said many times, If asked, I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

The First Dance

The Mysteries of Innocence

The First Dance: The Mysteries of Innocence

Earliest Childhood Memories

Was there ever, truly, an age of innocence? Some of my theological colleagues will assert we are born in sin. Others, we are born innocent, but into a sinful world. Still others will maintain we are all born innocent, with a clean slate as it were, and learn habits, ideas, patterns of behavior that corrupt our spirits, souls, and even bodies. Yikes, that sounds complicated at the least, and a mystery at the most. Well, there you are, and here we go.

I was born June 13, 1936, a nine-pound fifteen-ounce bouncing baby (walrus)! I think I must have been the weight champ of the newborn ward at Belmont Hospital in Chicago, Illinois! My mom certainly was happy to be relieved of that load.

Having an older sister, Diane, and brother, Don to watch over me (eight and seven years older), they loved me and did their very best to encourage and support me. That helped a lot since my mother, Grace Mary, was suffering with the seriously ill and bedridden last days of her own mother’s life. Her mom died shortly after my birth leaving a saddened and grieving family. In addition, I actually was born a twin. My brother’s name would have been Ralph, after my uncle. But poor Ralph had too many internal complications and died at birth. It was probably due to these stressful situations and circumstances that I contracted double bronchial pneumonia at four month’s age and (so I am told) almost died. My mom rocked me day and night for many days praying that I would survive. She is truly a saint and was properly named Grace. That was certainly appropriate, for she possessed a very kind and generous heart.

I actually had a rather a rough start in life. But with love and patient care I gained strength and health and was soon crawling around and getting into as much mischief as possible. At least that’s what my siblings tell me. My memories of those early years of my life are myriad and cover a wide variety of circumstances. The following are as many as I can reasonably recall. Here my claim for the innocence of toddlers makes its case. At two years of age, I seemed to have a passion for exploring coupled with no use for clothing at all, which I discarded at every opportunity! In the middle of any given afternoon, my mother would receive a telephone call from a neighbor that went something like this: Mrs. Dressler, Raymond is running around the neighborhood again without a stitch of clothes on! And on another specific occasion, the call came from the Elmwood Park Police Station two blocks away from our house that, again, went something like this: Mrs. Dressler. This is the desk sergeant at the Elmwood Park Police Station. We have a toddler standing here in front of us stark naked, and we think he’s your son. Would you please come and get him. And also bring his clothes! This one I remember! Who wouldn’t, standing in front of a group of policemen looking to be at least ten feet tall! Ah, innocence is bliss! To assure you, my apparel habits quickly changed, and I dressed (or was dressed) appropriately after that at least most of the time.

When I was about four, I had a rather serious mishap while riding on the back of my brother’s bicycle. Don was always very good to me, and I looked up to my big brother, who let me tag along with him well into my grade school days. On this occasion, with my feet dangling over the rear seat of the bicycle, my foot got caught in the spokes and peeled away the skin on my heel resulting in a lot of blood loss. Racing home, I was soon bandaged up with no long-term complications. Why this stands out in my memory bank is a bit of a mystery in itself. I choose to believe it serves to preserve the early recollections of a brother who was so loving, protective and caring of his little tag-along kid brother, that it remains a precious memory.

However, it wasn’t always that way! We were living on a quiet dirt street in West Chicago in 1941, when Don exhibited another side of his character. We shared a second­ floor bedroom furnished with bunk beds. I had the upper one with Don occupying the lower. When it was time for bed, being quite light my brother would simply throw me up let me bounce off the wall and land in my bed. He told me he was practicing his bank shots. I think I was eight or nine before I realized I was not a basketball!

We had been living in Elmwood Park, Illinois, in 1938. It became apparent that the Japanese empire would soon likely be drawn into World War II, in collusion with Nazi Germany and Benito Mussolini of Italy. My dad, who had taken four years of ROTC training in high school, and who was an officer in the Army Reserve at that time, was ordered to active duty and given orders to report to Fort Bliss Army Post in El Paso, Texas. He traveled on ahead to report for duty while my mother packed up our family and household goods, with the help of her dad, my Gramps (whom I shall speak of with great affection and admiration later) and drove us in a 1937 Dodge all the way to El Paso. We were, of course, proud of our dad and wanted to be as close to him as possible before he shipped out to the Pacific Theatre. He was an army captain at the time and would eventually become an lieutenant colonel and commander of the 202nd Coast Artillery Battalion. We lived in El Paso on Binkley Street for about a year and a half.

While living there and continuing my passion for world exploration at age three, I promptly got lost one morning. But don’t be alarmed yet. This time, I was fully dressed! I had been in the habit of tagging along behind my big brother whenever I could and wherever he went. One morning, he left for school with my sister Diane. They attended Crockett Elementary School, which was about eight blocks away. By this time, Don was beginning to get a bit perturbed with my constant company, so he took a three-block detour in an effort to lose me. He made four turns and I made three! His mission was accomplished, but mine was just beginning. I wandered through the neighborhood for about an hour, when an army officer drove up, asked me if I was lost and said, Hop in. We’ll just drive around until you see your house. In short order, he returned me to my home, and all ended well. Don’t think my mom was terribly worried, so I don’t recall being scolded. But now that I think about it… She was on the front porch and welcomed me home with open arms while thanking the officer with grateful exclamations. As if my dear mom didn’t have enough to worry about! Fortunately for me, those were the good old days when some stranger wouldn’t snatch wandering children.

Soon my dad was ordered to the pre-embarkation shipyard at Bremerton, Washington, in preparation for being deployed to the Philippine islands. His unit would provide protective shore firepower for our navy troop transports and gunships. After my dad left, my mom moved our family back to Chicago where my sister, brother, and Gramps would stay with our Aunt Katherine. Mom and I traveled by train to Bremerton to be with my dad for a few months until he was finally shipped out. I can still close my eyes and see the blimps hovering over Bremerton Naval Base on watch for Japanese or German submarines. Soon after my dad’s departure, my mom and I took the train ride once more returning to Chicago in 1941. Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, had been bombed in December 1941, and now my dad was in the thick of combat serving on General Douglas MacArthur’s staff located in Manila Bay, Philippines. It would be 1945 before he returned to the United States. This was my first experience of what long deployments and family separations were really like. Later in my navy career, I would recall conversations when young sailors and their new wives would come to me complaining that four- or five- or even six-month deployments were just unacceptable, I would have to take a deep breath and try to understand, empathize, and console them. I held my tongue and resisted the urge of telling them what genuine long deployments were all about! This was the Navy. Standard deployments included four-, six-, or even nine-month deployments on a rotational basis with shore duty. Truly the United States Navy is a dedicated but not always pleasant, life. The big fib some crusty old chief petty officers would tell was Don’t fret. You’ll get used to it. Well, having spent at least ten of my twenty-four years at sea or separated from home, you never get used to it. It always hurts. You just have to accept it and adjust to it knowing your cause is a just and noble one.

Returning to Chicago, we moved to a second-floor flat on the near West Side on Kildare Avenue. It was right under the shadow of St. Mel’s Roman Catholic Church. I would later recall that name in my high school days when we would face their football team in gladiatorial combat on the field. They were ferocious for good Catholic boys! We never beat them! We concluded that since they were Catholics, they therefore had God on their side! Simple, confused theology, but it made sense to us.

Now, five years old and enrolled in kindergarten, my explorative nature, once again, kicked in. Only this time my choices weren’t so wise, even for a five-year-old. I like to believe that innocently I became a street gang member and launched into a career of petty theft with the kids from our neighborhood. It wasn’t really a big deal though. We limited our craft to stealing candy from the local supermarket around the corner. Fortunately, I never got caught. Didn’t acquire much loot either. But I think my mom had a notion regarding my extracurricular activities outside of kindergarten, for shortly after living there we moved way out to the far west side of Chicago. I think she was convinced she wanted to raise her children in a better and socially healthier environment.

Before we leave our home on Kildare Avenue, there is one more unforgettable memory that I must share. This one was a whopper with a lesson burned (no pun intended) into my memory bank.

My mom, after washing all of the light and lacy curtains from our apartment windows, would lay them out on the twin beds of my and my brother’s bedroom in the front of the flat. Much too fascinated with fire, I used to light the fringes of the curtains to see the sparkle of the flames. Not very bright, I know. But I was only five. I know, pretty lame excuse. Anyway, one day the flames got out of control. I screamed for my mom, who came running into the bedroom, sent me to her bedroom, tore open the shutters and through up the sash…oops, wrong story! Flipped open the windows and flung the burning curtains out the window. Lots of smoke but the room suffered no damage. The curtains, however, were a total and disastrous loss. Once the chaos settled down, next came the judgment. And the grace of God turned into the judgment of God! My mother stormed into her bedroom, said Turn over, and demonstrated the way you can never see yourself in the reflection of a hand mirror. As I recall, still trembling, I got about four solid whacks for my day’s adventure with fire. I still remember that mirror! Lesson learned. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Ouch! Little did I know our son Daniel must have picked up some of this passion of mine. For years later, that tiny speck of DNA would pop up in him, earning him the nickname his siblings gave him, Pyro. He, too, was fascinated with the sparkling flames.

Grade School Days

After moving again further west, but still within Chicago city limits, we lived on a street named Oconto named after a tribe of Illinois Indians. All of the streets for many blocks in our surrounding neighborhood were named after either Indians, or Indian tribes. There were Ottawa, Odell, Octavio, Osceola, Oleander, Oriole, etc. Chicago itself is named after the Indian chief Chicagou.

Some sense of the innocence I spoke of at the beginning of this chapter seemed to return to our family at this time. We moved into (rented) a charming two-story Dutch-style home on a dirt street seventy-two blocks west of Lake Michigan. It was a good time for all of us. The war seemed far away. The sparsely housed neighborhood we lived in was filled with kindly folk. The neighbors, who lived next door, were farmers; Jenny and George Andrix and their two sons, George Paul and Frankie. George Paul, became my brother’s pal, and Frankie mine. Our streets were unpaved. There were initially perhaps three houses on our block. Most of the blocks around us were prairie grass. The lamp posts were gas fired, and the lamp lighter would come around each evening with his ladder on the back bumper of his 1937 Chevy, lean the ladder up against the large globe, turn the wick up, and light the lamp. He returned again in the early morning hours to lower the wick and douse the light. I’m sure that’s where the song writer Hoagy Carmichael got the idea and was inspired to write the song The Old Lamplighter of Long, Long Ago. We, and most of the neighbors, had a victory garden in which we planted all kinds of vegetables. We had a huge grape arbor flourishing with bundles of white and blue grapes from which my mom made grape jelly. The old garage in the back of our lot bordering the alley was turned into a chicken/turkey house with roosting and nests for about twenty birds. Our next-door neighbor raised rabbits. In the winter, we created a small ice rink for skating and some sledding down a small hill made from leftover dirt from the foundation dig at the back of the yard.

It really was almost like the Little House on the Prairie television program many years later. One needs to remember that after the Great Chicago Fire in October 1871, all the buildings and shacks throughout most of the entire city were burned to the ground. Legend has it that the fire was started in the downtown section when Mrs. O’Leary’s cow kicked over the kerosene lantern while she was milking. Whatever the cause, the city was leveled. What a legacy!

When the reconstruction began, all of the streets on the center, north, south, and west sides of city were laid out exactly east/west and north/south in strictly measured eight blocks to the mile segments and grids. There was some variation on the South side due to the curvature of the southern end of Lake Michigan. The only building in the downtown area, which was saved and remains standing, was the old stone Water Tower located on what is now named Michigan Avenue. That’s why all older native Chicagoans love that tower and preserve it. It originally stood on the shore of Lake Michigan serving as a pumping station for domestic water for the entire city. It remains as an historical monument. My mom recalls that as a little girl one of her favorite Sunday outings was when her mother would take her to the Water Tower for a walk around its perimeter to see the expanse of the lake. Those were some of mom’s fondest childhood memories.

It’s interesting to note in passing that everything (i.e., all the land and buildings East of Michigan Avenue, which runs parallel to Lake Michigan) was built up on the excavated dirt from all of the new buildings in the downtown area. The original shoreline was actually extended about a mile into the lake, which is only about thirty-five feet deep at that southernmost point. While Michigan Avenue used to be the shoreline prior to the Great Fire, now the roadway bordering the water is literally called Lakeshore Drive. Those construction projects provided thousands of acres upon which Grant Park, Soldier’s Field, the Adler Planetarium and the Shedd Aquarium were constructed. Riggs Airfield and the Museum of Natural History were also constructed on newly filled lakeshore. Many of those great Greek-style edifices were built for the World’s Fair in 1933 and remain as tourist and educational attractions today.

It was a good time and a good place to live then. My mom would give us a quarter, and that would cover bus fare to and from the movie theater, a nickel candy bar and twelve cents to get into the show. I built a tree house in the empty lot across the alley from our home. It even had a small pot-bellied stove and chimney. I recall one day going up to play and opened the door to the stove only to find a squirrel had set up housekeeping in my stove! I flew out of there so fast I almost fell the twenty feet to the very hard earth. On another occasion, I built the frame of a one-room playhouse in our back yard from scrap lumber left over by construction crews building new homes in our neighborhood. Those were my very earliest adventures into construction and cabinet making. I am sure both my brother and I inherited those woodworking skills from our dad, who was a very fine cabinetmaker as well as disciplined architectural designer.

Nighttime in the neighborhood, before we all had to go in, provided time to play capture the flag, or kick the can or hide-and-seek and sometimes, catch one catch all. They were all simple activities but truly inexpensive games making for good fun and lasting friendships.

Our old two-story house provided ample opportunity for exploration and more entertainment. My favorite hiding place was the clothes chute, which ran from the second floor bathroom, down past the kitchen with access over the kitchen stove, and emptied into the basement by the washtubs. I could scamper up from the basement or enter from the upstairs bathroom. On one occasion, when my sister was using the facility, I opened the chute door right next to her and said, Boo. Enraged, she opened the chute door while I quickly climbed down for cover. However, before I could reach the bottom and escape she poured a glass full of water down on my head threatening to end my already short life when she caught me. On another occasion, while residing in the chute, I opened the door just above the stove where my mom was cooking dinner and once again said, Boo. Well, there was no outrage on mom’s part, just a plea not ever to scare her again in that same manner.

Ronny Larson was my best friend through all eight years of grade school. He had the very same numerical address we did, 3324, only two blocks over. He and I spent almost all of our playtime together. I had bought a box full of Whizzer bicycle motor parts from a friend at school. Ronny and I were determined to mount it on my Schwin bicycle, which had a knee action spring where the front fork was attached to the frame (the latest innovation in smooth riding bikes, you know). We had all of the parts laid out on our back sidewalk when my dad came along and made us clean up what he called a mess. He also made Ronny go home because my dad said he was always instigating trouble. Trouble was what he called our experimenting and learning. Poor man. He told us we were always tearing something up and making a mess. Ronny eventually bought a Cushman motor scooter enabling us to zoom around the neighborhoods together.

Eventually, after a lot of trial and error, I was successful in overhauling the engine, mounted it on my bike and had many fun filled months riding it. I even used it to go back and forth to high school for my freshman through junior years. That got more than a little dicey in the winter snow. However, the summers between my junior and senior year, and between my senior year and college days I used that motorbike to go back and forth to the Norwood Park Swimming Pool where I was a lifeguard. I had one of my most profound experiences as a lifeguard at that pool, which I’ll relate at a later time.

A few other memories and then I’ll move on. I wasn’t always the innocent or welcomed little brother to either my brother or sister. While still in grade school, one day I captured a small green garden/grass snake, carefully placed it in a small box and presented it to Diane as if it were a treasure. She opened it, screamed, and well, you can guess the rest. On yet another occasion, when I must have been about six or seven, she was going to a party and had just put on a pretty dress with a red velvet top. My mom was helping her get dressed. I said how pretty it was and reached up to touch the smooth velvet on her blouse. Unfortunately, for me, I was not yet aware of the major differences between boys and girls, and I rubbed the velvet over her left breast! Instantly she swatted at me as I ducked and ran! My mom calmed her down reminding her I was just a little boy and didn’t realize what I had done, where I had touched her. But it was another close call. During those years, I was air-born so many times that I became convinced aviation was surely in my future!

Three final short story memories. As I said before, we were not poor, but we created much of our own fun using scrap materials and things to play on or with. All the kids in the neighborhood made Orange crate or soap box scooters complete with wheels you could steer by ropes attached to the front wheels. Unfortunately, the only way you could stop was by dragging your shoes. We also made our own skateboards by taking apart our metal roller skates and nailing the separated sections to the front and rear of a two by four board. Sometimes you could nail a second board vertically to the front to make a handle to steer it.

For toy soldiers, we would take scrap pieces of lead pipes, melt them in large iron ladles by holding them over the burning coals in our furnace, and then pour the molten lead into molds resulting in a variety of shapes and bodies of lead toy soldiers. A bit dangerous, but Don did all of the melting while I held the molds when the lead was ready to pour.

Finally, here is a story about my early faith development. When we attended grade school, the Chicago Board of Education instituted a program called Release Time for Religious Education. It consisted of letting students out an hour early on Wednesday afternoons to attend the churches of their choice for religious education and nurture. I chose a community church two blocks from our school. I clearly remember my first time there. The leader of the group of about twenty gathered kids held up a tiny matchbox for us all to see. He then began to describe the miniature carvings inside the tiny box, which consisted of two people, a small table, a broom, and a cook-stove. He did not show this to us. But he asked how many of the students believed that what he just described wasn’t really in that little box? Most of the hands went up. Then he asked who believed that he was really telling the truth. I hesitatingly raised my hand along with a few others. He asked me why I believed him without seeing for myself what was in that little matchbox. I remember saying, "We are in a church and I just don’t think you would lie to us here. He asked me to come up, look into the matchbox, and tell the students what I saw. Well, it was exactly as he described, and I showed them all. He told me I had great faith and trust, which would be with me to guide and support me as I grew up. I will never forget that lesson and took that little matchbox, which he gave me, home to tell my mom. I only wish I knew what became of that little gem!

Those were good healthy days and experiences. I attended grade school while Don and Diane attended high school. Diane attended Steinmetz where I would later follow her, and Don went to Lane Tech, which was basically a trade school. My Gramps was home while my mom worked every day. Every Sunday, we went to church. My mom and I taught Sunday school lessons from the time I could read. She directed the children’s and youth choirs insisting, as I always sang in them, that I wear a white robe, which got shorter and shorter as I grew taller, and which I protested wearing to no avail. We were a happy family, but unfortunately in 1945, that soon changed. The war was over. That part was good. Germany, Italy, and Japan were defeated and surrendered. The huge task of rebuilding Europe under the Marshall Plan began.

The End of World War II

And the warriors came home. Some didn’t and are buried in memorial cemeteries all over Europe as well as the United States. Many who returned, however, were wounded either in body or soul, or both. Nancy’s uncle Jack, captured in the Battle of the Bulge, was never really the same. Fighting for his life after being captured and sent to a German prison camp, his youthful happiness had been stripped from his spirit. And my dad returned home too. Having contracted tuberculosis in the South Pacific and recovering in a veterans hospital for over a year in Colorado… He was never the same again either. His life’s ambition and dream was to be a career soldier. Now in late 1946, he came home ill, one lung collapsed, retired from the army he dearly loved and resigned himself to become what amounted to a family man with an aging father-in-law, somewhat fragile wife, two teenage children, and another in midgrade school. To us he had been a hero. To himself, he had lost his career, his dreams, and unfortunately, his sense of direction. On the surface, he seemed okay. But on the inside, I came to realize he was a broken man. That has often been one of the prices of war for many, many veterans. Freedom is always precious, and the cost for preserving it always extensive.

Add to the above a bit of background regarding my dad may help to explain his personality development and behavioral changes after his army career loss. Beyond his combat experiences, he had some heavy emotional baggage. In his youth, his teenage sister, Lydia, had been tending an old wood-burning stove in the kitchen when her dress caught fire as she was putting more wood in it. She ran from the house screaming with my dad running after her. He had hoped to catch her and smother her flames in the snow. But tragically, he was too late. She died a few days later. My dad’s brother, Edward, contracted polio during his youth and had to wear steel braces on both his legs for the rest of his life. Uncle Edward married another polio victim, Sophie, and they shared a reasonably good life though childless. They both died quite young. My dad’s father was little more than a drunk dying at a young age from alcoholism. His mother, Grandma Dressler, lived with (common law) a Chicago cab driver named Herman Lott, whom she never married, and who was simply an old overweight sloppy grouch. I don’t believe I ever talked to him even though I visited there many times.

So my dad’s developing years were mostly marked with tragedy and disappointment, and, I believe, were exacerbated by his disappointments with his relatively short-lived military career. At best, he returned home, truly, a broken soldier. As the late President Kennedy often said, War and bloodshed today is the terrible price we pay for peaceful and better tomorrow. It seems it has always been that way and shows no sign of being altered still today. At the very least, my dad was a truly confused husband and father who had next to no role modeling or encouragement while growing up. In high school and vocational training school, he did become an excellent architect and skilled woodworking carpenter. As luck would have it, while I was enrolled in high school, and studying architecture and machine drawing, my teacher, Charley Temple, recognized my name, and told me he had served with my dad in the same army company. Small world.

Before moving on to high school days, a few more anecdotal notes that I recall as I write. On another day in grade school, when I must have been about eight or nine, all the kids were jumping into the straw lying on the dirt floor of the newly excavated basements of new housing in our area. Well, not to miss out on such great fun, I decided to jump in too. But instead of landing on my feet about eight feet below, I threw my legs up and landed squarely on my bottom. The pain of landing on a cement footing just beneath the straw, which I mistakenly thought was much thicker, was excruciating and literally took my breath away. I limped home, but never mentioned it to my parents. I knew I would be scolded for doing something so foolish. Now in these later years as I recall the event, it may well have been the origin of my back problems and the seven surgeries I have experienced. Ah, we get too soon old and too late smart! While it is obvious Don and I had a truly great relationship, it was not always so congenial with my sister. Beyond sibling rivalry, gender, and age difference, truth be known, I could be a real stinker to Diane. That was a whole different issue. I know we loved each other but didn’t always like each other. I remember one day, on a weekend, when she came home from college. I had planned on starting my model airplane gasoline engines on Saturday morning in the basement. She had planned on doing her laundry and insisted I get out! Nope. I wasn’t going to budge. So after she had hung up all her wet clothes on the clothesline, I promptly started up my engine. Exhaust smoke filled the room. She came downstairs screaming at me with fingernails out to choke me. Well, no chance to escape up the clothes chute, which was my usual escape route, so it was fight or die. She was twenty, and I was twelve—a real David and Goliath scene! As she flew at me, I reached out, clutched her outstretched fingers with mine, and bent hers backward. She screeched in pain. My mom came running in, and I just backed away. I had no idea I was stronger than Diane. My mom said, Raymond. Don’t you know you could have broken all her fingers! She was studying to be a concert pianist! For me, it was pure survival, but I apologized. Diane never threatened me again. We did remain friends, and I know she always loved me but not on that particular Saturday morning.

Finally, I remember a teacher/parent conference when I was in about seventh grade. The teacher/counselor, Miss Federico, was one of my favorites, and pals with my own teacher, Miss Gentile. Of course I really liked them both! The purpose of the conference was to assist both parent and student in focusing on what to do with the talents he or she possessed, and to choose a goal or set of goals, which would guide us as we prepared to enter high school. After reviewing my school work and what Ms. Federico shared in her appraisal of my work and potential, she looked at my mom and said, Mrs. Dressler, your son can be anything he chooses to be. I’ll never forget the look of pride and happiness in my mom’s eyes. I think those words were directed to my mom because Ms. Federico knew who the inspiration behind my achievements was. My mom. With my dad having been gone for so many years during the war, she had to be the role model for both mother and father. She was kind and generous, disciplined, hardworking, gracious, inspirational and encouraged all of us always to be our best selves.

During those years, money was scarce. These were ration times. We collected tin cans, inner tubes, newspapers etc., for many war-effort drives. We were not poor, but careful to use our resources as wisely as possible. I took a paper route delivering the news to about eighty homes after school. Soon a new morning route opened up with about 120 home deliveries, and I liked that route and the time more so I accepted it. One memory stands out because I experienced the rewards of honesty, which took me a bit by surprise. I had thrown the wrapped paper with the intent for it to land on the small front porch of one of my customers. I must have eaten my Wheaties that morning since the paper took off and blew right through the front glass storm door. Up to that point, my aim had been really good. Well, I stopped, got off my bike, penned a note saying I was sorry and would be happy to pay for the repair and stuck it between the doors. When it came time to collect the dues later that week, I approached this particular house with some trepidation. The glass had already been replaced. Surprised, I rang the doorbell and waited for the presentation of my bill for damages done. The door opened and a warm and friendly face appeared. The owner said, Hi, Raymond. We got your note. Thank you for your honesty and willingness to have the storm door repaired. Don’t worry about that. Here’s an extra dollar tip for you. You might want to adjust your pitching skills a bit. Yes, I still tear up as I think back upon this simple but life-enriching experience.

The following spring, at our Eighth Grade Awards Assembly just before graduation, I received the American Legion Merit Award, given to the most well rounded student for scholastic and athletic abilities and achievements in the graduating class. I truly had no idea it was coming. In fact, I had never even heard of that particular award but was nevertheless thrilled to receive it. Simply because I had either volunteered for or wanted to, I was the fire marshall, a patrol boy, played on the school softball team, assisted in paper drives, sang in the mixed chorus, and made the honor roll every year I attended Dever Grade School graduating in June of 1950.

So in spite of the fact that those were difficult years, life was still good with determination, perseverance, hopes, and dreams that America was still a great country, and we were most fortunate to live here.

High School Years

There were lots of changes to come in the next four years. By the time I was in Steinmetz High School, where my sister had attended, my sister and brother were both away from home. Don had attended Lane Technical School, the largest vocational training school in the country boasting 7,800 male students. My sister Diane attended Morningside College in Sioux City, Iowa, and my brother enlisted in the United States Air Force and was ordered to Flight Training School at Lackland Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas. He had been enrolled in Maryville Missouri State Teacher’s College but was fearful he might be drafted before he could finish his studies and so he enlisted. As I recall, he had only been in the Air Force a few months when he experienced periods of vision black outs. Obviously, he was never sure when these would occur so he was washed out of the military flight school and was medically released from his active duty commitment. After a complete examination of his spinal column the doctor’s discovered his very last vertebrae was only partially developed. The result was occasional periods of "blackouts, which could not be predicted or corrected through surgery. He was terribly disappointed with his circumstances. I have since thought it was this disappointment and blow to his dreams of becoming an aviator that resulted in his making a rather premature decision, which he later came to regret. While in flight school, he had fallen in love with a young woman in San Antonio and decided to marry her! He had lost his flying career and didn’t want to lose her too. She was attractive, but saying she was a bit wild would be putting it mildly. Born and raised in New Orleans, she was, ethnically speaking, a mix of French and Indian (i.e., a Creole to be more specific).

Don and Louise, along with her two sons Tommy and Timmy, came to live with us in Chicago. It wasn’t long before my dad and Louise came to verbal blows over her housekeeping talents (or lack thereof), and in a boisterous argument, my dad said Don, his new wife and family had to get out. I felt terrible about everything and was sad to see my brother leave, especially under these circumstances. But Don, accepting the situation and knowing his wife had a fiery temper and spirit was undeterred, packed up his new family and moved to Chicago’s South Side where he quickly found temporary work.

When the school year rolled around that September Don reenrolled in college at DeKalb and moved into veteran’s housing on campus. I remember that well since later in my junior year, I hitchhiked the sixty-four miles from our home in Chicago out to DeKalb to pick up a suit I was borrowing from Don to wear for my junior prom. I hitchhiked all the way back with the suit over my shoulder. I was happy to see Don but eager to leave because he and Louise had been fighting frequently. So much so that Don had to lock his bedroom door at night so she couldn’t come in and stab him! Early lessons for me in what one could best describe as a rather unconventional romance in marriage! She scared me too!

Soon after that they were divorced, Don finished his college work earning a master’s degree in physical education, specializing in gymnastics, and moved back to Chicago again on the South side. In the meantime my sister had gone on to earn her PhD in Sacred Music at Columbia University in New York and was teaching in Dallas, Texas.

Looking back over those four years I spent in high school, there were some truly wonderful times and exciting experiences. Don had encouraged me to try out for the junior varsity football team in the fall, which I did. It was the first of many high school sports I participated in. While the various coaches always wanted me to focus on just one sport, I wanted to enjoy playing on other teams as the seasons changed. So I played on the football team in the fall, swim team during the winter and track and field team in the spring. I knew I would never truly excel if I played on all these teams, but sports wasn’t my principal goal. I had other interests too, viz., church, teaching Sunday School and singing in the choirs, work after school to help my mom, and, of course, girls!

Church attendance provided an abundance of pretty and very nice young women. I think at one time or another I dated every one of the girls in our Methodist Youth Fellowship. Notably there were identical twin girls that I took a shine to. The only problem was I, and almost all of the rest of our church gang, couldn’t tell one from the other. It was all puppy love, but let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you become very fond of one of two identical twins! Jean and Joan Knol played a trick on me. In about ninth grade I asked Jean (or so I thought) to go to the show with me and two other couples. (That was the game plan in the olden days. All dates had to be in groups!). All the time I thought Jean was my date until we got to her home and she announced she was actually Joan! Well, whatever, I said. We had a good time. I think it was three years before, all at once, I could tell the difference between the two of them! By then I was well into high school and dating someone else altogether. All happy memories filled with rich and supporting friendships.

At high school, in my sophomore year, I had my first real experience of what I thought was true love. Myrna Mueller was working at Goldblatts Department Store at the same time I was. Our friendship developed slowly but surely, and eventually, we were going steady. Myrna came from a really great home. She and her older sister Nancy and parents lived about three miles from our house. Beyond dates, parties, and proms, the most wonderful aspect of our friendship was the genuine encouragement and support I had from her parents. They knew, via Myrna, the stresses of my home life and did their best to support and stand by me as I endeavored to deal with my situation. One example will demonstrate this. I was taking industrial arts in high school and saw a diagram in popular mechanics of a set of modern end tables I wanted to make for my mom for Christmas. My dad had a complete woodworking shop in our garage, but he would not allow me to touch even one tool. His tools were the same my teachers had been teaching us to use at school! Gordon Mueller, Myrna’s father, said that if I wanted I could build them in his basement using his tools. I did and my mom was thrilled with them. But my dad called and threatened Myrna’s dad with a lawsuit charging alienation of affection if he continued to allow me the use of his basement and tools. That was sad.

Well, that ended rather abruptly with Myrna’s folks apologizing for having created this uncomfortable atmosphere. I look back upon their friendship with nothing but gratitude and affection. They were wonderful to me and were there for me at a very critical junction in my life. I loved them and will always appreciate the many kindnesses they returned to me. They were and always remained an important part of my life.

There are other stories that come to mind during this period as I recount the ones I have thus far shared. For example, during one of our darker and more stressful periods in high school, earlier in the day, I had had