Lal by Judith Kolva

carl thome

ÂŠ 2008 copyright

Lal and The Girls, Naples, Florida, 2008

a legacy of gracious giving

Lal: A Legacy of Gracious Giving Text copyright ©2008 Lavern Gertrude Norris Gaynor Photos courtesy of the Norris/Gaynor family archives except: pages ii, x, 106m 328, 352 copyright © Carl Thome page 251 copyright © Patrick O’Brien page 258 courtesy of Marjorie Lenk page 335 copyright © Dennis Guyitt As told to Judith Kolva, Ph.D., Personal Historian Memoir Shoppe Hodges University www.memoirshoppe.com Cover design, book design, and layout by cj Madigan Shoebox Scanning & Design www.shoeboxscanning.biz

To The Norris Family Past, Present, and Future

Contents Prologue …… 1 Ancestors …… 5 Mother …… 61 Father …… 81 The Norris Family Fortune …… 105 Siblings …… 115 Growing Up …… 131 School Days …… 155 Married Life …… 173 Children …… 183 The Gaynors at Home …… 195 Son-in-law & Daughter-in-law …… 253 Grandchildren …… 257 Keewaydin …… 265 Pets …… 281 Community Involvement …… 307 Cultural Landscape …… 333 Musings …… 343 Touch Tomorrow …… 351

Acknowledgements My heartfelt thanks to Terry McMahan and all my friends at Hodges University for giving me the opportunity to tell the story of the Norris family.

Foreword From Keewaydin Island in the south, to Delnor Wiggins State Park in the north, to Hodges University and the YMCA of Collier County in the east, to the Norris Center in downtown Naples, Lavern Norris Gaynor and the Norris family create an indelible imprint on the greater Naples community. Their mission is to benefit citizens of this community. Greatness can be defined in many ways. It can fit many circumstances. But when it is combined with compassion, humanity, and quiet benevolence, it is also the definition of “character.” In another word, it is “Lal.” The reader is invited to see the world through the eyes of Lavern Norris Gaynor—eyes that evidence pride in her family, pride in being a Neapolitan, and pride in stewardship of magnificent personal resources that are directed toward making a meaningful difference in the lives of people who need assistance. Lal shares anecdotes peppered with humor, historical perspective, unabashed opinion, and of course, wisdom. Lal: A Legacy of Gracious Giving is her life story brilliantly captured by Dr. Judith Kolva of Hodges University. Each of us is responsible to future generations—responsible to record local history. Lal, as she has done so many times in her life, shows us the way. Her candid observations, vision, and most of all, kindness of spirit provide us with inspiration to follow her footsteps. I’m confident that you will be inspired by her words. I have no doubt that you will develop a deep respect for her many civic accomplishments. Now, please enjoy reading the legacy of one great lady.

Terry P. McMahan President Hodges University Naples & Fort Myers, Florida June 2008

painting copyright

photo copyright

The Family Tree

Prologue

The Norris Heritage, Back row left to right: Gertrude F. Norris, Carroll W. Norris, Altie Clark Norris, Charles Norris; Front row left to right: Mrs. Flynn, Dad holding me, Mother, Laura Babcock Clark, My Christening Day, April 1923

The Norris Heritage A Legacy of Gracious Giving

t’s true. My family inherited the Texaco fortune. I know I’m lucky. But there’s more—much more—to a happy life than having money. Receiving a fortune can be good. Or it can be bad. Money—in itself—isn’t important. What’s important is how you handle the money. Quite frankly, I admire the way my parents, Lester and Dellora Norris, handled our family’s money. My family is a loving family. My parents raised their children correctly. Until we were adults, my siblings and I didn’t realize we were wealthy. I’m not sure how my parents did it, but they did. I don’t know why, but we never thought of ourselves as having more money than anyone else. Maybe it’s because my parents included our friends in everything we did. Maybe it’s because they never talked about our wealth. Maybe it’s because they considered everyone to be equal. I just don’t know. What I do know is my parents’ legacy is one of using the Norris family fortune to help other people. In my head and in my heart, I know my family’s money is put to good use. It works to help people who are down-and-out. It works to help people help themselves. It works to develop communities. It works to protect the environment. It works to build hospitals, recreation facilities, and cultural venues. It works to support education. And through it all, it works gently, quietly, modestly.

I hope that through my story, the Norris legacy of generosity—of caring—of gracious giving will live forever.

For years, my children begged me to record my story—the story of the Norris family. I’d acknowledge their request with the proverbial paton-the-head. “Oh, yes. I promise…I promise…someday…someday.” Then I’d go about my daily business. But no more platitudes. It’s time. It’s time to tell my story. I hope that my children and everyone else who reads my story will understand why I’m proud to be a Norris—why I’m proud to carry on the heritage of the Norris family. I hope that through my story, the Norris legacy of generosity—of caring—of gracious giving will live forever. I’ve been thinking: Stories have a way of taking care of us. They provide guidance, counsel, encouragement, inspiration. We learn from our stories. We build upon our stories. Actually, stories are the glue of human connections. But what about my story—what about the Norris family story? I pondered, and in an “Aha!” moment, the answer came to me: Stories flow through generations. My story is part of my ancestors’ stories. Then it becomes part of my descendants’ stories. It was very interesting when I realized that my story didn’t begin on my birthday. It began long before I was born. It will live long after I die. Accordingly, I will go back as far as I can remember and tell you everything I can recall about the people, places, triumphs, and tragedies that blend to form the Norris legacy of gracious giving.

Ancestors

Mr. and Mrs. Flynn and Family, On ground: My father and his dog; Behind my father: Mrs. Flynn; On porch left to right: Carroll W. Norris, Gertrude Flynn Norris, Mr. Flynn, Hattie Studman holding baby, Mrs. Flynnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s German mother, circa 1902

My Great Grandparents Mr. and Mrs. Flynn

o one knows for sure. I must depend on hearsay and a single faded photograph to tell you about my great grandparents, Mr. and Mrs. Flynn. They weren’t prominent people. But even the un-acclaimed generally leave some evidence of their lives on this earth. Not Mr. and Mrs. Flynn. I’m sorry to tell you that everything—birth certificates, marriage license, land deeds, death certificates—is lost. Even their first names are a mystery. I didn’t know my great grandparents, but my father, Lester Norris, did. They were his mother’s parents. When my father was a child, he spent a good deal of time with his grandfather and grandmother Flynn. Even so, he only heard them referred to as “Mr. and Mrs. Flynn.” Grandfather Flynn called his wife “Mrs. Flynn.” Grandmother Flynn called her husband “Mr. Flynn.” Back in the1800s, that’s just the way it was, and my father didn’t ask any questions. I wish I could tell you their first names. Sadly, I can’t. Family lore suggests that Mr. Flynn was born in the 1800s someplace in Canada. Exactly where, no one knows. I do know his parents immigrated to Canada from Ireland, so I can claim Irish blood on my father’s side of the family. I suppose—as is every Irishman—I’m related to both barons and beggars. But I don’t know. Apparently, after Mr. Flynn’s parents decided to settle in Canada, they located a suitable plot of land, built a little log cabin, and started farming.

Even their first names are a mystery.

As the story goes, one fine day Mr. Flynn’s mother carried him to the cabin’s porch and tucked him into his cradle. After her son was comfortable, she stepped inside to face the never-ending chores that filled her busy day. Mid-morning, she wiped her hands on her apron and opened the cabin door to check on her baby. To her horror, he wasn’t sleeping peacefully where she’d left him. His cradle was empty. I can only imagine her terror. The men were working in the fields. Mr. Flynn’s mother ran from the cabin screaming, “Come quick. Come quick. My baby is gone. My baby is gone.” She feared the worst. “It’s the Indians. It’s the Indians. They’ve captured my son.” The men dropped their plows and broke into search parties that galloped off in search of my great grandfather. Well, his mother’s fears were confirmed. I don’t know what tribe of Indians seized Mr. Flynn, but I do know that his father hunted down the war party. Mr. Flynn’s father had no choice. He killed the Indians and raced away with his son. News of the murders spread quickly. In no time, the entire tribe was on the warpath. The target was my family. Again, Mr. Flynn’s father had no choice. He assembled his family and headed south. So that’s how my ancestors—a brave little group of Irishmen—settled in Elgin, Illinois. I’m not positive, but I believe Mr. Flynn was a farmer like his parents. I do know he and Mrs. Flynn parented four daughters. One lazy summer afternoon, the girls were canoeing on a river that flowed through their land. Unfortunately, the canoe tipped over, and because not one of the girls knew how to swim, one drowned. From that day onward, everyone in the family harbored a terrible fear of the water. When Mr. Flynn realized my father didn’t know how to swim, he decided to correct this dangerous deficiency. The problem—at least for my father—was Mr. Flynn didn’t know how to swim either. Well, that minor detail didn’t stop the swimming lessons. Mr. Flynn simply tied a rope around my father’s waist, threw him off the dock, and yelled, “Stay

afloat. Stay afloat.” Mr. Flynn didn’t seem to notice, or care, that the river had a swift undercurrent. I’m not sure why my great grandfather’s remedy didn’t turn into another tragedy, but fortunately—for me—my father lived to tell the story. As far as I know, Mrs. Flynn was born in Germany. I don’t know the date. Nor do I know when or why she and her family immigrated to the United States. From her photograph, I know she was plump. But what was she like as a person? I’m sorry. I can’t tell you. I just don’t know. I’ve heard that when Mrs. Flynn came to the new world, she didn’t speak English. I have no idea how this German-speaking lady met and married an English-speaking Irishman. Actually, I can’t quite imagine it, but I do know it happened. My family is proof of their union. Eventually, Mrs. Flynn learned to speak English, but because her German-speaking mother lived with her and Mr. Flynn, they only spoke German in their home. My father claimed that’s how he learned to speak and understand a fair amount of German. I don’t know when Mr. and Mrs. Flynn died. Nor do I know the cause of their deaths. I think they’re buried in Elgin, Illinois, but I’m not absolutely sure. Unfortunately, this is where their story ends. I stare at my one faded photograph and wonder.

My Great Grandfather Charles Edward Norris

y family’s connection to West Chicago, Illinois—a small town about thirty miles west of Chicago—began with my great grandfather, Charles Edward Norris. My great grandfather Norris’s parents were born in England. I believe he, too, was born in England, but that’s hearsay. I can’t tell you why the family immigrated to the United States. Nor can I tell what directed their footsteps to West Chicago. Great Grandfather Norris died when I was very young, so I don’t remember much about him. His early photos show a nice looking man with very dark hair and very black eyes. As he got older, his hair turned snow white, but it continued to be thick and lustrous. Interestingly, I remember him as being tall, but no one on that side of the family was tall. Perhaps my memories of his stature are confused with my memories of his poise and formal style of dress. “Dignified” is the word that comes to mind. Great Grandfather Norris was West Chicago’s furniture man—the man who made and sold furniture to the locals. In my great grandfather’s days—the late 1800s—the town’s furniture man built furniture and coffins. Now, not only did the furniture man build the coffins, he served as the town’s undertaker—the man who embalmed the corpses and buried the bodies. Although selling furniture was lucrative, it was the money my great grandfather earned from the Norris Funeral Home that supported his wife, two daughters, and three sons. In time, two sons joined him in the furniture store, and, like their father, they became undertakers. The business was then renamed Norris and Sons Funeral Home. Eventually, one son continued the furniture and undertaking business in St. Charles, Illinois. 005-006 In West Chicago, the Norris Funeral Home operated in the basement of my great grandfather’s furniture store. When Great Grandfather Norris received word of a death, he’d pick up the body and transport it to the furniture store. There, he’d embalm the corpse, position it, peacefully, in

The Clark and Norris Families, Golden Wedding Celebration, 1905

Norris Furniture, West Chicago, Illinois

a wooden coffin, and return it to the family’s home where it was laid out in the parlor. Even though in those days, communication was basically through word-of-mouth, it didn’t take long before everyone in town heard about the death. Within hours, friends and neighbors delivered fried chicken, potato salad, loaves of bread—still warm and fragrant from the oven—rich chocolate cakes, and a huge assortment of pies to the grieving family. Everyone in town was expected to attend the wake. On the day of the burial, the body was transported by horse and wagon to the church for the funeral and then to the cemetery for the burial. Usually, family and friends returned to the deceased’s home and paid final respects at what could turn out to be a rather raucous party.

My great grandfather was a very dear person. He was kind and gentle, and he enjoyed his family.

Great Grandfather Norris was a staunch Methodist. He attended church regularly and was relentless about teaching his beliefs to his sons and daughters. His sons were sweet, kind men. They were men who never lied—men who, like their father, conducted business with a promise and a handshake. Their word was as good as—probably better than—any contract. For the Norris family—then and now—a man’s word, not his prominence, is the mark of his greatness. But I must tell you that I’ve learned a difficult lesson. Back in my great grandfather’s days, life was different than it is today. Although my great grandfather’s values are part of the Norris gene pool, they aren’t always respected by other people. Like my great grandfather, I believe that when people give their word—make a promise—they’ll do as they say they’re going to do. I don’t think I’m naive, but it still surprises me when a person doesn’t back words with actions. I think: Okay. This is difficult to accept. But it’s true. Then I go about my business of living a life that’s right for me—a life that’s based on the Norris family values of trust, honesty, and integrity.

My great grandfather was a very dear person. He was kind and gentle, and he enjoyed his family. Because he lived in West Chicago and my family lived in St. Charles, we rarely saw him. The twenty miles between the two towns was a long distance to travel. Nowadays, of course, you jump in the car and are there in about half-an-hour. Back then it wasn’t as easy. Despite the infrequency of our visits, I adored Great Grandfather Norris. When I did see him, he’d sit for hours talking with me. I knew I had his undivided attention. I can still see him hold out his hand, smile, and call to me. “Come, honey. Come to Grandpa.” Well, I didn’t have to be invited twice. I’d scamper across the room and cuddle up on his lap. I was only four years old when my great grandfather died, but I still remember what happened. He was admitted to the hospital with what I think was a heart problem. When he asked to see me and my brother Brud, my parents drove us to the hospital and led us to Great Grandfather’s room. Not expecting to see him ill, I was horrified. Within seconds, every patient, every doctor, every nurse, every visitor in the entire hospital was, literally, aware of my terror. Brud and I stood in the doorway to our great grandfather’s room. All I could see was white—white bed, white sheets, white covers, white gown, white walls—everything in the room was white, white, white. If that weren’t bad enough, my great grandfather was extremely pale, and his snow white hair glowed in the white lights. Immediately, I concluded: Ghost! Well, that single thought was all it took to set me off. I grabbed the door jam, clutched three-year-old Brud, and screamed …and screamed…and screamed. Brud did his best to release himself from my vice-grip, but I wrapped my arm around his neck and screamed some more. By then Brud, who wanted to go to Great Grandfather’s bedside, was screaming too. But Brud’s screams weren’t caused by a ghost. They were caused by me—I was hurting him. Poor Great Grandfather. He held out his hand, and in a very weak voice, he called to me, “Oh, honey, I’m not going to hurt you. Come here, sweetie. It’s me. It’s Grandpa. Come see me.” But no way. Not me. Not Brud. I’ll never forget what I did. It’s rather an understatement to say, “I caused lots of problems in the hospital that day.” But I did. How could I stand there—just screaming? How awful. How atrocious. The poor man

only wanted comfort, but I refused him one of his last wishes. To this day, I’m haunted by the recollection of my behavior. Great Grandfather Norris died soon after that horrible day. The date was September 18, 1929. He was seventy-six years old. I don’t remember his funeral, but I do remember my mother insisting, “Children don’t belong in hospitals.” My great grandfather is buried in West Chicago. I think his grave is in the town cemetery, but I’m not sure. My memories of dear, sweet Great Grandfather Norris are limited.

My Great Grandmother Altie Clark Norris

y great grandmother, Altie Clark Norris, lived for fifteen years after Great Grandfather Norris died. Naturally, I remember more about her than I do about him. Great Grandmother Norris was born March 26, 1857, in Prince Edward, West Canada. When Great Grandma was a child her family moved to Utica, New York. Then when she was a teenager, they moved to West Chicago, where she lived for the rest of her life. Great Grandma Altie died in 1943. Back then I thought anyone eighty-six years old was ancient. Today, I don’t think she was that old. The story of my great grandmother’s parents is lost. I can only tell you the facts—facts that are recorded in yellowed obituaries. Her mother, Laura Babcock, was born in New York State, in October 1839. In 1855, she married Lyman C. Clarke. For some unknown reason, they packed their belongings in a covered wagon and moved to Prince Edward, West Canada. Around 1871—again for some unknown reason—they moved to West Chicago. Laura and Lyman parented seven children, but four died in childhood. They were members of the Methodist church. Laura loved needlework. Lyman died in 1907. Laura died in 1931. That’s all I can tell you. Great Grandmother Norris was just a little bit of a thing—barely five feet tall. “Cute” describes her perfectly. When she hugged me, I

smelled lavender. Even today—all these years later—the aroma of lavender brings back memories of Great Grandma Altie. In keeping with what she considered to be fashionable, Great Grandma pulled her gone-gray hair up on top of her head and topped it with a hat. Her hats weren’t large, but they did have a brim and were decorated with flowers. Grandma Altie’s wardrobe didn’t vary. Her clothes were navy blue or black and edged with white or tan. Her skirts were long. Her blouses buttoned up to her neck. To my young mind, she was old-fashioned.

Altie Clark Norris was a real character.

Great Grandma Altie didn’t like housework, and back in her days, that made her different from the average woman. I remember going to her house and seeing family members shake their heads and whisper, “You know, Grandma just isn’t much of a housekeeper.” I’d look around at the disarray and realize truer words were never spoken. For such a tiny thing, Great Grandma was feisty. She was always on the move—a doer sort of a person. And quite frankly, because she was so social, she’d rather talk to customers in the furniture store than clean her house. Great Grandma had six children—three boys and three girls. The children ranged widely in age with one daughter being only a year older than my father—her grandson. Regardless of the fact that she didn’t enjoy the womanly duties of her era, she was a good mother and loved her children. Great Grandma valued loyalty and was committed to developing a close family. Her efforts were rewarded. Very interestingly, her grandchildren were all artists. One was a wonderful pianist. A few were architects. My father was a cartoonist. I’m guessing here, but I think this talent was part of the Norris—not the Clarke—gene pool. Wherever it came from, her grandchildren had artistic talents. Then there was me—the great granddaughter. Obviously, the artistic gene pool was dry.

My great grandparents were typical working people, and the Norris family home was a typical Midwestern house. I remember the house was built of wood and painted tan. A big porch spanned its entire front. As you went in the front door, there was a big living room. The dining room was off the kitchen. I don’t remember much about the second level because Grandma wouldn’t let us go upstairs—probably because it was too much of a mess. A widow’s walk perched on top of the house. A widow’s walk is a railed rooftop platform that’s typically built on seacoast houses. The historic name comes from the widows of lost mariners who climbed to rooftops and gazed out to sea wishing—beyond hope—for their husbands’ safe return. Beyond their use as viewing platforms, widow’s walks provide easy access to chimneys. Back then when a house caught fire, folks poured sand down the burning chimney. With luck, the sand prevented the entire house from burning to the ground. I don’t think women in land-locked West Chicago searched the sea for lost husbands, so I guess the widow’s walk on my great grandparents’ house was meant to be a safety device. In any case, I remember it as the house’s most prominent feature. My vague memories of the furniture store in West Chicago start when I was about ten years old. I close my eyes and see lots of furniture scattered all over a big showroom. I see furniture that my great grandfather made, but I also see other furniture. Where this other furniture came from, I don’t know, but I do see it in the store. All the furniture was made from wood. I don’t see any upholstered furniture. Admittedly, in my mind’s eye, I see mostly clutter. The building was square. It was constructed of wood and brick and not at all interesting. I remember big glass windows and a sign on top that read “Norris Furniture.” A cement sidewalk ran in front of the store. All I can tell you about the storefront is that it was rather dull. I also vaguely remember the furniture store in St. Charles—the store that was operated by one of the Norris sons. I knew that store a little better than the one in West Chicago, but I can’t recall many details. It was on the main street of town, which at that time wasn’t much of a main street. My most vivid recollection is looking out the store’s front window and seeing black Fords on the street. It’s hard to imagine, but back then black was the only color Ford you could buy. The fancy Fords

had isinglass windows—flexible, plastic-like windows that the owners snapped in place when it rained. By the time I was ten years old, I was taller than Great Grandma Altie. But height didn’t mean much. Even though she was tiny, my great grandmother didn’t take any nonsense. Her grandchildren learned quickly: Great Grandma wasn’t about to ask questions. She was strict, strict, strict. Good children were supposed to mind, and that was that. One Thanksgiving, my cousins and I tested Great Grandma’s good children rule and learned first-hand what it meant when she planted her hands on her hips and declared, “My. My. You children are in so much trouble!” Because my cousins lived in West Chicago, they spent a lot of time with Great Grandma and knew her well. They convinced me that Great Grandma was distracted by the clamor of visiting relatives, so we could wiggle by her usual watchful eye. They were wrong. Rumor had it that Great Grandma’s idea of cleaning her house for company meant pushing furniture into an unused room and locking the door. Apparently, she didn’t want people to see her usual mess. In her house, what was out-of-sight was out-of-mind. Being curious children, we conspired to seek the truth once and for all. One of my cousins was the ringleader. He lowered his voice and revealed, “You know, there’s a key to this room, and I know where it is. I’ll sneak it.” The cousins were impressed and cheered him on. Well, that was the beginning of our demise. The key was located, and the team of conspirators traipsed into the forbidden room. Sure enough—there was the furniture—there was the mess. Proof! In Great Grandma’s mind, the house was clean. We giggled over our discovery and whispered to each other, “Keep an eye out for Grandma.” But it was too late. Great Grandma found us. To say, “She wasn’t very happy,” doesn’t capture her wrath. I thought: So much for revealing Great Grandma’s secret to good housekeeping. Years later—this was probably around 1946 right after my parents bought Keewaydin in Florida—my father made a last minute decision to drive from St. Charles to Florida, so he could take a close look at the new property. Well, my father enjoyed Great Grandma’s company. He admired her. He respected her willingness to work hard. Plus, he

thought she was great fun and a good sport. Not wanting to make the long drive alone, he called Great Grandma Altie. “Grandma, I’m driving to Keewaydin today. Do you want to go with me?” Her interest perked immediately. “Oh yes. I really would.” My father replied, “Great. But, Grandma, there’s a little problem here. This is short notice. I’m leaving my house in about half-an-hour.” Grandma didn’t hesitate. She said, “No problem. No problem. That’s quite all right,” and hung up the phone. An hour later, my father pulled up in front of Great Grandma’s house. And there she was—standing on the porch wearing her hat and white gloves. She clutched her suitcase in one hand and her purse in the other. No doubt about it—she was ready to go. Great Grandma shot my father a rather disgusted look, clomped down the porch steps, and huffed, “So. What took you so long?” My great grandma was a real traveler. She was ready to take a trip any place, any time, any way. And no matter where she went, she had a wonderful time. Yes. That was Great Grandma. I’m confident that my father inherited Great Grandma Altie’s love of travel. He, too, was ready to go anywhere at a moment’s notice. The family farm in New York State was willed to Great Grandma Altie. She hadn’t been there for years and didn’t remember much about it, but it was her farm—her land. It belonged to her. In Great Grandma’s opinion, there was no logical reason to pay taxes on her property. After all, the government wouldn’t dare take something that belonged to her. I can still hear Great Grandma rant, “It’s my farm. It was left to me by my family. I’m not paying taxes on my property.” She didn’t have an aversion to the government. Her family fought in the Revolutionary War, and she was very patriotic except for paying taxes on her farm. She understood why she had to pay taxes on the property in West Chicago. But the farm? No way. That was hers. My father didn’t know anything about Great Grandma’s singlehanded boycott of the IRS until a family member broke the news. “Lester, do you know the Norris farm in New York State is in trouble? Grandma refuses to pay the taxes, and the government is about to claim the property.”

My Grandmother, Lavern Jesse Baker Angell, circa 1908

My father investigated immediately and discovered the report was, indeed, true. The IRS was after my five-foot-tall, eighty-four-year-old Great Grandmother. Dad wrote the check for delinquent taxes. Grandma kept her farm. The IRS backed off. When I was a young girl, my parents and I visited Great Grandma Altie’s rescued farm. At the time, no one lived on the property, so it had fallen into great disrepair. I remember walking down a dirt road and seeing plaques engraved with names of people who fought in the Revolutionary War. I was intrigued when I discovered some of the plaques bore names of my relatives on the Clarke side of our family. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you their stories. It’s been years since I’ve been back to the farm. I’m not sure I could even locate the property, but I’d love to see it again. For all I know—by now—there might be all sorts of development on and around the property. But in my mind, it’s still Great Grandmother Altie’s farm. There’s one more thing I want to tell you. True confessions here: I inherited my great grandmother’s belief—no way should she be forced to pay taxes on her farm. After my great grandfather died, Great Grandma Altie didn’t continue working in the furniture store. Instead, her entire life revolved around her family. I don’t know the cause of her death. Nor do I know for sure where she’s buried. I think it’s in the West Chicago town cemetery next to her husband. I was in college when she died. I remember coming home for her funeral, but I don’t remember the details. What I do remember is this: Great Grandmother Altie Clarke Norris was a real character.

My Grandmother Lavern Jesse Baker Angell

y grandmother, Lavern Jesse Baker Angell, died when my mother was only nine years old, so I can’t tell you too much about her. I’ll start with the facts: Grandmother Angell was

born November 1, 1866, in St. Charles, Illinois. She had two siblings—a brother and a sister. She and my grandfather were married about fourteen years before my mother—their only child—was born. From her pictures, I see that my grandmother was a small woman with dark hair and dark eyes.

I was ten years old before I even knew Grandmother Lavern Angell existed.

I was amazed when my mother told me that my grandmother was almost totally blind. As the story goes, when my grandmother was about eighteen years old, she stood on a chair to hang a drapery. The chair tipped, and she fell and injured her spine. After the accident, she could see forms, but she couldn’t see peoples’ features or make out the details of her surroundings. This, however, didn’t affect her wits. No one could fool my grandmother. Dusting was my mother’s chore. Even though she tried to rush through this detested task, she couldn’t get her hurries past my grandmother. Mother told me, “If I missed a spot, somehow your grandmother knew it.” Because my grandmother couldn’t see well, she’d developed her sense of touch. She’d run her hand across the furniture, and when she felt dust, she’d call to my mother, “Look, young lady. You didn’t dust over here.” When my mother did something naughty, she’d hide, but there were two problems with her scheme. First, it made my grandmother furious. And second, my mother couldn’t control her nervous giggles. Of course, my grandmother stalked the giggles to the hideout, and Mother knew what was next. Apparently, after a number of hard spankings, my mother learned her lesson and gave up her futile game of hide-and-seek.

One day, I was visiting with my grandmother’s former neighbor. She asked me if I knew that my grandmother was a wonderful seamstress. I didn’t. This was news to me. The neighbor proceeded to fill me in. “Your grandmother was a remarkable woman. She made beautiful little clothes for my dolls. The tiny, hand-made details were remarkable. Not only did she sew, she did everything around the house—the cooking, the laundry, the cleaning—everything.” After our conversation, I couldn’t help but think: Amazing. She did all this with very limited vision. My grandmother died suddenly. There was absolutely no warning. The cause of her death was heart related—probably an aneurism—but no one knows for sure. In 1911—the year of her death—medical knowledge wasn’t what it is today. On the day she died, my grandmother decided to fry donuts. As the donuts were cooling, she fried the holes—you know, the little circles of dough cut out from the center of the donuts. Well, my grandmother ate a donut hole, and within minutes, she dropped dead. Obviously, something was wrong with her heart, but for years my mother was convinced my grandmother died because she ate a donut hole. When my siblings and I were children, my mother allowed us to eat donuts, but the holes were forbidden. I know it’s silly, but to this day, I stop and think twice before I eat a donut hole. I was ten years old before I even knew Grandmother Lavern Angell existed. My brother and sister and I were going through the typical kid’s ghost story stage. We just knew the cemetery was swarming with ghosts, and we were terrified. Mother listened to our fears, but eventually she got tired of hearing us moan. We’d insist, “There are ghosts in the cemetery. There are ghosts in the cemetery.” And on, and on, and on we’d go. One day, she’d had enough. “That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. Get your coats and hats. We’re going to the cemetery.” Slowly, I buttoned my coat. Slowly, I found my hat. Even more slowly, I climbed in the car. This was probably the last trip of my young life, so I wanted to savor every moment. Being the eldest, I knew it was my job to spot lurking ghosts. We tiptoed across the graves. We read names chiseled on the tombstones. No ghosts. I started to relax—a bit. Eventually, Mother led us to our family’s mausoleum. I peered through the little door, and to my amazement, I saw the name Lavern. I turned, puzzled, to my mother and asked, “Mother, the name I see here is Lavern. Who is that?”

Well, with my discovery, my mother had to confess. She admitted, “Lavern is your grandmother.” I was shocked. “She can’t be. I have a grandmother. Grandma Esther is my grandmother.” Mother took my hand and said, “Well, honey, not exactly. Esther is your step-grandmother. Lavern is your real grandmother. Actually, you’re named after my mother and your grandmother Lavern Angell.” I couldn’t believe it. I absolutely adored Grandma Esther. She was wonderful—the best grandmother any girl could have. I was hurt, upset, confused. How could it be that I had another grandmother? I wanted Grandma Esther—not Grandma Lavern—to be my real grandmother. After I calmed down a bit, I thought: Well, at least now I know why I have this horrible name. In my family, horrible names are a tradition. Once the drama was over, my mother pointed out, “You’re very lucky to have a step-grandmother like Grandma Esther.” I thought: Well, yes I am. But I couldn’t just let it go. I thought and thought and thought some more. A few days later, I made up my mind: For the rest of her life, Grandma Esther was my real grandmother.

My Real Grandmother Esther Mellander Angell

fter my grandmother Lavern died, my grandfather hired Esther Mellander to take care of my mother and manage the household tasks. A couple of years later, they married. Grandma Esther was tall and dignified. She wasn’t the prettiest woman in the world, but there was a serenity about her that was lovely. Everyone—and I mean everyone—liked my grandmother. When I think back, I realize it’s Grandma Esther who’s responsible for my love of reading. She loved to read and encouraged me and my siblings to read constantly. For me, this wasn’t a problem. Reading was fun. I have fond memories of the library in Grandma and Grandpa’s

Grandma Esther Angell and Family, Left to right: Grandpa Angell, Grandma Angell, Roberta, Mother, California, circa 1921. The gun protected them from rattlesnakes.

house. It was a big room located at the top of the stairs. It had comfortable green leather chairs and walls lined with books. Almost every evening—as the sun was setting—Grandma and Grandpa and I sat in the library and read. Grandpa read his books. Grandma read her books. I read my books. The downstairs living room was more formal, but its walls were also lined with books. Obviously, books were important to my family. Everywhere I looked I saw books, books, and more books. I was only six years old when I started reading regularly. I read in the morning. I read during my afternoon quiet time. I read before I went to bed. I was always reading, reading, reading. Of course, when I was a child, we didn’t have television. I look back and think: This was probably a healthier time for people. Anyway, my lifelong love of reading started with the Bobbsey Twins and progressed from there. I certainly wasn’t the only child in the world who enjoyed books in the Bobbsey Twins series. The first books came out in 1904 making it the longest running series of children’s books ever. I still think about the two sets of Bobbsey twins and their family. The oldest twins, Bert and Nan, have dark brown hair and brown eyes. The youngest twins, Freddie and

Flossie, are chubby with blonde hair and blue eyes. They live with their parents, their dog Snap, their cat Snoop, and their two black servants, Dinah and Sam, in an upper-middle-class neighborhood in the fictional city of Lakeport on Lake Metoka.

It’s Grandma Esther who’s responsible for my love of reading.

The twins enjoy wonderful days full of sunshine, laughter, and love. I suppose their lives are ideal, but their values reach out and touch generations of children. And I might as well tell you right now—children are very important to me. It’s too bad I don’t know what happened to my Bobbsey Twins books. They were originals, and today, less than a dozen copies survive. These books are true historical treasures, and I’d love to donate them to a museum. Eventually, Grandma and Grandpa Angell vacationed in California. When my father was cartooning—I’ll tell you that story later—my family lived in California between the months of January and June, so for six months of the year, we saw Grandma and Grandpa frequently. Well, Grandma loved avocadoes. Back then avocadoes were way beyond my culinary favorites. I’d examine these green, thick-skinned, mushy things and wonder: Why in the world does anyone like avocadoes? Had avocadoes stayed on Grandma’s plate, my wondering would have remained purely intellectual. But somehow, they also appeared on my plate. To make matters worse, the never-to-be-broken family rule was clear: Children must eat everything on their plates. It took me years to forgive avocadoes for causing me so much misery. But true confessions here: Today, a beautiful avocado tree lives prominently in my Naples side-yard. In 1914, my grandparents parented a daughter, Roberta Angell. Unfortunately, Roberta wasn’t an easy child. Unlike my mother, Roberta was difficult—very difficult. Back then she was called “nervous.” This,

combined with a bad temper, was a formula for disaster. By the time Roberta was born, Grandpa was in his mid-fifties and wanted his life to be calm and orderly. Well, Grandpa complained about Roberta’s commotion. Grandma tried to keep Roberta quiet. Roberta created more commotion. Grandpa complained more loudly. Grandma shushed Roberta. Roberta got louder. Grandpa fumed. It was a never-ending circle of frustration. Grandma sent Roberta to school, but Roberta had difficulty adjusting to people other than her mother. Again, this was a hardship for Grandma, but she kept smiling and never complained. Grandma worked hard and did everything she could to help her daughter. Eventually, she hired a woman to help her with Roberta. I’m not sure how much she helped, but Roberta did seem to improve slightly. Nowadays, of course, the care would be more sophisticated. After Grandma died, Roberta moved to Florida and seemed to do all right. She was religious, so most of her life was built around the Lutheran church. Not only did Grandma take care of Roberta, she took care of everybody. I spent lots and lots of time with Grandma. Never once did I see her angry. Never once did I hear her raise her voice. She was always calm—always sweet. She’d say something quietly and people responded. Grandma Esther was a wonderful woman. To this day, I think about her and hope I have some of her characteristics. Grandma died around 1977. She was in the hospital, but no one knew exactly what was wrong with her. I lived in Naples, so I wasn’t able to be with my grandma. I’ll never forget the day my mother called and said, “Lal, I’m sorry to tell you Grandma Esther died from an aneurism.” This was one of the saddest days of my life. At the time, my mother had emphysema and wasn’t able to get out and about, so she asked me to take care of Grandma’s funeral arrangements. This meant a lot to me. There’s no doubt—when Grandma Esther died, I lost my real grandmother.

My Grandfather Robert Francis Angell

y mother’s father was named Robert Francis Angell. And for the record, that’s A-N-G-E-L-L. My grandfather made sure everybody knew his name had two Ls. People called him “Frank,” so he always introduced himself as, “I’m Frank Angell. And that’s Angell with two Ls.” Grandpa Angell was born in 1864 somewhere in Wisconsin. He was a tall man—a big, strong man. He stood about six-two or six-three. Everybody on his side of the family was tall, so maybe that’s where I get my height. I remember his bald head and pale blue eyes.

Grandpa Angell, Reading in his favorite chair

Grandpa was a rather stern individual—very strict and very blunt. People didn’t cross him. When he walked into a room, people knew he was a man to be respected. When he spoke, people sort of jumped and listened to what he had to say. It’s strange, but he was never abrupt— never brusque—with me or my mother. To us, he was always very kind and very sweet. My brother, though, was bombarded with the full force of Grandpa’s curt personality.

Every evening, I sat on the footstool in front of his favorite chair, and he told me stories.

Grandpa started his work life as a tradesman. He painted houses for a living. Well, after he retired, he bought a summer home in Wisconsin. Grandpa loved this home and worked hard to take care of it. I still laugh when I think about one of my visits. Grandpa hired a painter to do some outside work. As soon as I stepped out of the car, I heard a Victrola playing very loud, very fast music. Knowing how crotchety Grandpa could be, I was positive the painter was headed straight to the Land of Trouble, so I said, “Grandpa, do you want me to change the record?” To my surprise, Grandpa just laughed. “No! Don’t touch that Victrola. The music stays just as it is. I heard that painter whistling a slow tune, and I saw him painting slowly. I found this peppy music, and look how fast he’s painting now. I painted for a living, so I know all the tricks.” Eventually, Grandpa stopped painting and administered the family’s money. No one discussed the details, so I can’t tell you exactly what he did. But I can tell you that when my mother was growing up, my grandpa’s job was to manage our family’s fortune. I suppose because I was the eldest child in my family, I was the first to come down with the measles, mumps, chicken pox, and all the other childhood diseases. The minute I sneezed, I was whisked off to my

Me and Grandpa Angell, Tomahawk, Wisconsin, 1925

grandparents’ home and had to stay put until I recovered. In those days, no one realized that once symptoms were obvious, the contagious stage of the disease was over, and the germs were already spread around. I was sick a lot, but I never complained. In my mind, I was lucky. Being sick meant I was coddled by my grandparents. I remember when I had the measles, the doctor’s orders were clear. “The child’s eyes cannot be exposed to light.” I felt sorry for myself and thought: So. Now what am I going to do? But the doctor’s instructions weren’t a problem for Grandma. We sat together in a dimly lit room, and she read to me. My grandma thought I was special. Grandpa thought I was special too. Every evening, I sat on the footstool in front of his favorite chair, and he told me stories. As I got older, Grandpa and I listened to the radio. Well, back in the days before Grandpa and Grandma were married, Grandma was a school teacher. She knew what was educational and what wasn’t. Listening to the Lone Ranger on the radio clearly didn’t earn a passing grade. Grandpa and I didn’t pay any attention to Grandma’s scolding. We pulled our chairs up close to the Emerson radio, turned up the volume, and waited to hear the Lone Ranger theme music. At seven PM sharp, the cavalry charge finale of Gioacchino Rossini’s William Tell Overture filled the room. Then the opening line, “A fiery horse with the speed of

light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty Hi-yo Silver—The Lone Ranger,” blared from the speakers. We stayed glued to the radio as the masked Texas Ranger, his horse, Silver, and his American Indian sidekick, Tonto, galloped around the Old West righting injustices. This was a special time for me and Grandpa. It’s a memory that will live in my heart forever. Grandpa was one of the most honest people I’ve ever known. He had lots of friends, and as far as I was concerned, he was a caring, loving, kind person. Not only was he physically strong, he had strength of character. Whenever I needed him, Grandpa Angell—Robert Francis Angell with two Ls—was there for me. What more can a girl ask for?

My Grandfather Carroll William (CW) Norris

y father’s father, Carroll William Norris, was born January 15, 1880, in West Chicago, Illinois. He didn’t escape the family’s horrible name tradition. Carroll. What a name for a boy. I’m not sure why he was named Carroll. Nor was he. But he rectified the humiliation by insisting that people call him “Cal” or “CW.” Grandpa Norris wasn’t very tall, but he was broad-shouldered and strong. People couldn’t help but notice his brown—practically black— eyes that lit up when he smiled, and he smiled a lot. Grandpa was selfassured. I remember he almost always dressed in a nice suit. Even when he played golf, he was neat and well-dressed. To me, Grandpa was a sweet, kind person, but he also had a stern side. My father told me Grandpa was a strict father, but that didn’t surprise me—my father was a tough father, too. Grandpa Norris was a hard-working, upper-middle-class man—a man who set the bar of integrity high. People learned quickly that Grandpa wouldn’t tolerate anyone who lied to him. Like his father before him and his son after him, Grandpa Norris valued trust. As a young man, Grandpa worked in his father’s furniture and undertaking businesses. He disliked it immensely—especially the

Grandpa Norris, 1888

undertaking. After my parents were married, they bought a number of farms and other properties. Knowing Grandpa was unhappy in the furniture and undertaking business, they asked Grandpa to work for them, and he accepted. With that decision made—in about 1924—my parents bought a piece of property in St. Charles. I don’t remember the number of acres, but it was big. Our house was on one side of the property, and Grandma and Grandpa’s house was on the other side of the property. Our houses were about a city block apart; nonetheless, we could see back-and-forth from one yard to the other. A fence marked the line between the two lots, but we didn’t consider it to designate a separation. We children almost

wore out the gate in that fence. Candy from Grandma was, undoubtedly, one incentive for our frequent visits. St. Charles was a small town. It seemed to me that Grandpa knew everybody in town. But it was one of those small towns where everybody did know everybody. Grandpa was interested in everything that went on in St. Charles and regularly volunteered to participate in community activities. Because he was a devout Methodist, church activities were especially important to him. He also was a trustee of Delnor hospital, a commodore of the Boat Club, active in local Masonry, Grand Lecturer Emeritus for the Masonic Order of Illinois, active in the Chamber of Commerce, a leader in the St. Charles Day activities, on the Board of Directors for the St. Charles State Bank, a member of the Fox Valley Area Council of the Chicago Motor Club, a member of St. Charles Lodge 14 I.O.O.F., and active in the St. Charles Country Club. No question—Grandpa was a hard worker. If he signed up to do a job, he did it, and he did it well. People in town knew: CW Norris saw things through until the very end. Grandpa worked out of a home office—an arrangement my sister Joann and I thought was perfect. We loved being around Grandpa when he worked and wiled away many an enjoyable afternoon playing in Grandpa’s office. On one ill-fated day, Grandpa tipped back in his chair, propped his feet on his desk, closed his eyes, and took a little snooze. As soon as Joie and I heard him snoring, we eyed each other diabolically. This was a perfect opportunity for mischief. We couldn’t resist. We painted a lipstick face on Grandpa’s bald head and ran giggling out the door. When Grandpa woke up, he glanced at his pocket watch. Realizing he was almost late for his Board of Directors meeting, he grabbed his suit coat and raced off to the St. Charles State Bank. As you might guess, the guffaws directed at CW from the other board members failed to amuse him. To tell you that Grandpa wasn’t happy with us doesn’t come close to describing his fury. This is one time my sister and I learned up-closeand-personal what it meant to be the target of Grandpa’s wrath. I don’t remember his exact words, but I do remember a great deal of shouting. I also don’t remember how old I was, but I do remember I was old enough to know better.

Grandpa Norris, circa 1930

Grandpa was well known and highly respected for the numerous speeches he gave in St. Charles. He spoke intelligently and effectively about anything and everything. I’d listen to him and think: I sure wish I could speak half as well as my grandpa. Well, when I was in junior high school, I had my chance. I decided to run for president of my class. My competition was two boys. It’s different now, but when I was in school, girls ran for class secretary not class president. If I wanted to win—and I did—I had to be convincing. Grandpa was the best speech coach I knew, so I approached him with my request. “Grandpa, will you please help me write my campaign speeches?”

Grandpa’s mind raced a mile a minute.

Grandpa never let me down, and my plea for speech writing assistance was no exception. He helped me write great speeches. I didn’t win. But that didn’t matter to Grandpa. What mattered was I learned to persevere. At thirteen years old, I didn’t realize the depth of Grandpa’s wisdom. However, maturity sure changes one’s perspective. Thank you, Grandpa—thank you for teaching me an invaluable life lesson: Through perseverance I can make a positive difference in this world. As you’ll find out, this lesson has bolstered me throughout my life. One of CW Norris’s major accomplishments was the way he raised his son—the way he built a heritage that is the Norris circle of life. Grandpa was strict with my father—his only child—but he encouraged his son to follow his dreams. Grandpa thought Grandma spoiled my father, and that upset him. Grandpa cared about family more than anything in this world, and he wanted his son to be a hard worker—a good person. I knew my dad for fifty-eight years, and I’m proud to tell you that Grandpa was successful. Grandpa’s mind raced a mile a minute. For his entire life, he dreamed about inventing something fantastic. As proof, oodles of his inventions were everywhere. You could hardly walk through his basement without

tripping over one or another of his inventions. I remember the time owners of an ice cream parlor contacted Grandpa and asked him to draw plans for an elevator. After the inspector studied Grandpa’s drawing, he shook his head and said, “You need some sort of safety device. This elevator might drop, and someone will be hurt or even killed. You just can’t take that chance.” Obviously, Grandpa wasn’t getting a stamp of approval on this design. Grandpa sat and thought and thought and thought. Then he went to bed. In the morning, he announced, “Aha! Perfect! It came to me about two o’clock in the morning.” Grandpa’s best and brightest ideas occurred in the middle of the night. He’d wake up and scribble them down on the pad of paper that he kept on his bedside table. Well, when the inspector returned to the ice cream parlor and scrutinized Grandpa’s new idea, he scratched his head and said, “I’ve never seen anything like this before. But it works. It’s brilliant.” Finally, Grandpa had his fantastic invention. Grandpa loved Packard Motor Cars. In his not-to-be-disputed opinion, Packard automobiles had no competition. They were simply the best cars ever made. After all, as their ads claimed, they were “the soft spoken boss of the road.” When Grandpa bought a brand new black Packard, no one was surprised. A few days later, I was sitting in our kitchen eating breakfast. Through the window, I could see Grandpa working away in his backyard. What in the world was he doing? Suddenly, oatmeal lost its appeal. I dropped my spoon and stared at the strange sight. Not quite believing my eyes, I squinted. I squinted again. Nothing changed. Shiny car parts were spread out all over the lawn. I yelled for my mother. “Mother, come quick. Look! What is Grandpa doing now?” Mother just shook her head. “He’s taking his new Packard apart to see how it works.” “But he has to put it back together again doesn’t he?” Mother didn’t miss a beat. “Well, you know your grandfather. It will be back together, and it will run perfectly.” Mother was right. It did. Grandpa was notorious for outlandish accomplishments.

Grandpa loved golf. We had a nine-hole course on our property. Every summer evening after work, Grandpa and his friend played a round of golf. It seemed to me they argued every stroke of the way. But then they certainly didn’t ask for my opinion about golf etiquette. If it got dark before they finished the ninth-hole, they grabbed their flashlights. But the fun didn’t end after they sunk the last putt—they’d spend hours and hours practicing their short game. I was about twelve years old when Grandpa decided I should learn to play golf. It didn’t matter that I didn’t particularly like golf. The minute I spied Grandpa hoisting his clubs onto his shoulder, I ran and hid. But Grandpa was well aware of my shenanigans. He’d call, “Lala, it’s time. Be a good girl. Grab your clubs, and come on over to the golf course.” Trapped! There I’d stand—hour after hour—while Grandpa and his friend drilled me on the techniques of chipping and putting. There was no way out. I couldn’t leave until they decided my clinic was over. As much as I hated my golf lessons, I must admit that they helped my game. I’m deadly with my irons. Grandpa died in 1947—the spring after my daughter DeeDee was born in New York. Grandpa had recently turned sixty-five and was content

The St. Charles Day Parade, Marching in front of the State Bank of St. Charles, circa 1956

with his retirement. He and Grandma decided to take advantage of this new phase of their life by enjoying a vacation in Florida. A vacation, however, was nothing compared to the excitement of becoming firsttime great grandparents. There isn’t a word that adequately describes their joy, but “thrilled” comes close. As soon as the wonderful news sunk in, they decided to leave Florida immediately and drive straight through to New York, where they’d get their first chance to spoil their new great granddaughter. A few hours into their trip, Grandpa turned to Grandma and said, “You know, I’m feeling strange—just sort of off. I think we’d better go home, so I can rest a bit before we continue on to New York.” They pulled into their driveway in the late afternoon. The telephone wasn’t re-connected, and the only food in the house was some rather unappealing canned goods. But Grandpa didn’t care. As soon as he stopped the car he noticed that while they’d been away, a tree had fallen into their backyard. In Grandpa’s opinion, it required immediate attention. Grandma fussed at him, “Don’t you dawdle. When dinner is ready, I’ll call you just once. That’s it. You’d better come in and eat.” Grandpa could be very slow. He took his time with everything. True to her warning, when dinner was ready, Grandma stuck her head out the back door and called, “Cal, come on in. Dinner’s ready.” No answer. Now angry, she yelled, “You’d better come right now. I’m going to eat,” and slammed the door. Well, Grandpa didn’t come and didn’t come, so Grandma sat down at the dinner table. About half-way through her meal, she looked out the window. Through the pouring rain, she saw Grandpa lying on the ground. Grandma dropped her fork and ran out the door. She knew without knowing—her husband was dead. Grandma hurried back into the house and grabbed a big umbrella. Back in the yard, she sat next to her husband and held the umbrella over his body. No one knows how long she sat there, but eventually, someone in my family noticed the strange sight and ran across the yard to find out what was wrong. And there was Grandma—protecting her dead husband from the rain. She was no longer angry, but she never forgave herself.

My Grandmother Gertrude Flynn Norris

y father’s mother, Gertrude Flynn Norris, is the longestliving member of my family. She was born August 11, 1881, in Elgin, Illinois and died May 8, 1979. Grandma’s mind remained active until the day she died. I speculate—and I’m confident I’m correct—that her longevity was due to her gregarious, loving, affectionate nature. Grandma Norris loved people, and she loved life. She was one of the most generous people I’ve ever known. I believe her mission in life was to help anyone and everyone who needed heartening. Grandma Norris was short—just under five feet. My siblings and I could hardly wait to be as tall as Grandma. Our patience was never tested—I passed this milestone when I was only ten years old. Her eyes were gray-blue. But her hair? I can’t tell you. Grandma’s hair was dyed, and it changed colors frequently. As Grandma got older, her hair got redder. Unfortunately, her hairdresser wasn’t the best hairdresser in the world. I was convinced that she skipped her Red Hair Dye 101 class. Poor Grandma. Brassy red hair just wasn’t attractive on an old woman. Anyway, I was told Grandma was born with blonde hair, but that was speculation. When I knew Grandma, she had brown hair. She had black hair. She had that awful red hair. But even at nearly one hundred years old, she never had a single gray hair. Grandma had one bad leg—a condition that made her a bit lopsided. When she was a young girl, she broke her leg, and because it wasn’t set precisely, her body never realigned properly. Grandma bent over from the spine and walked with a pronounced limp. But her lifelong handicap

In my eight-year-old mind, life didn’t get any better than spending the day at Grandma’s house.

wasn’t really a handicap. She didn’t let it bother her. Instead, she simply decided to get over it. No matter what happened to her, Grandma was an independent thinker. Grandma wasn’t the best homemaker, and she certainly didn’t enjoy cooking. At least I have an excuse for being a lousy cook—it’s hereditary. Anyway, cooking aside, much to Grandpa’s chagrin, Grandma absolutely spoiled her son, my father. She cared about his accomplishments more than anything else in the world. No matter how outlandish, she supported and encouraged each and every one of my father’s ideas. She was proud of his busy mind and encouraged his schemes. Grandma’s spoiling didn’t stop with my father. Her grandchildren and, later, her great grandchildren were showered with her caring, generous acts of kindness. In my eight-year-old mind, life didn’t get any better than spending the day at Grandma’s house. One particular—rather infamous— afternoon, Grandma asked, “Lala, how would you like to see Grandma’s jewelry?” Of course I wanted to see Grandma’s jewelry. She took my hand, led me into her room, and unlocked her jewelry box. I could hardly believe my eyes. I “ooohed” and “aaahed” at the beautiful necklaces, sparkly rings, and stunning earrings. Before I knew it, I was headed home with a bagful of Grandma’s jewelry. Well, my mother’s welcome home was less than enthusiastic. I was hardly in the door before she spun me around and sent me and my bag of jewelry back to Grandma’s. I can still hear her scolding, “Where are your manners? You don’t do that. You don’t come home with Grandma’s jewelry. It’s not rightfully yours.” My explanation, “But, Mother! Grandma said if I liked it, I could have it,” went unheeded. My mother’s definition of perfect manners didn’t have wiggle room. Although Mother controlled our manners, she couldn’t control Grandma’s tendency to feed us what Mother called “the world’s worst foods.” When we were home, we were rarely allowed to eat “bad food.” However, visits to Grandma’s opened the door to an entirely different culinary experience. There, we indulged in chocolate cake topped with thick chocolate icing, candy, and other decadent treats. If Grandma needed an excuse, which she didn’t, it went something like this: If my grandchildren love it, I’ll make sure they get it. Whether food was “good for us” or not, Grandma made sure we got it—and got

Grandma Norris, 1949

it in large quantities. In retrospect, I don’t think anything Grandma fed us hurt us. And we certainly didn’t complain about being spoiled. When I was around Grandma I felt good, but this feeling didn’t come from indulging in “bad food.” She gave me a secure, comfortable feeling. I left home at a young age, and whenever I returned, I went immediately to Grandma’s house. She was the very first person I wanted to see. We didn’t have to do anything special. I simply enjoyed being with my grandma. Although Grandma and Grandpa had different personalities, they were close. There’s no doubt—Grandma was by Grandpa’s side no matter what. Some say her bad cooking contributed to his heart problems. But I want to tell you that the entire side of his family had heart problems. I concluded, long ago, that the culprit lurked in the family genes—not in Grandma’s avoidance of a heart-healthy diet. Grandma loved to talk with me about my life. Actually, she welcomed our conversations. It didn’t matter what I wanted to talk about. She’d sit for hours and listen to my ramblings. If I was interested, Grandma was interested. It was just that simple. Unfortunately, Grandma rarely talked about herself—about her life during the years she was growing up. Instead, the conversation focused on my stories. I do, however, remember one time when she kind of gazed off into the distance. I could tell she’d stopped listening to me and thought: What in the world is wrong? Well, when she reengaged, she smiled and said, “You know, Lala, I’m amazed to think about how I’ve lived long enough to go from riding in a horse and buggy to flying in a jet airplane.” But that was it. The conversation returned to me, me, me. How I wish I knew then what I know now. I’d have begged Grandma to tell me her stories. When Grandma was about ninety years old, she fell and broke her hip. She sprawled—alone and in pain—on the floor until a family member discovered her. Ignoring her protests, my father insisted, “That’s it, Mom. I’m finding a caregiver,” and hired Ruth. A year or so later, St. Charles was blasted with a terrible snowstorm. For days, people were housebound. After about the third day, Grandma declared, “Ruth, I’m very bored talking to you. We’re going out to dinner tonight.”

Ruth was a realist. “Look out the window, Gertrude. Snow drifts are four feet high, and the wind’s still howling. There’s no way I can get the car out of the driveway. Even if I did, the restaurants are all closed.” Well, my sociable grandmother refused to believe they couldn’t find a restaurant jammed with people—people recovering from cabin fever. After all, this was St. Charles. Didn’t folks grow up conquering blizzards? A little snow wouldn’t keep them inside. Grandma was firm, “I must see people.” Grandma died of old age. There was no particular cause. She just wore out. We buried her body in the St. Charles Cemetery. I remember a few months before she died, she said to me, “You know, Lala, I get very lonely.” I patted her hand and said, “But, Grandma, you have great grandchildren across the street from you. Your family is here. We all love you.” Grandma just looked at me with sad eyes and said, “But I have no friends. They’re all dead. I miss my friends.” Silence filled the space between us. Tick-tock…Tick-tock…Tick-tock. The clock mocked everything I wanted to say. But Grandma was right. I swallowed my meaningless words.

Aunt Carrie was a tiny, gray-haired, bossy woman —a typical old maid. Aunt Hattie was jolly, sparkly, and kind.

My Great Aunt Carrie Flynn

randma Norris had two sisters—Carrie Flynn and Harriet Flynn Studman. They were like oil and vinegar. Aunt Carrie was a tiny, gray-haired, bossy woman—a typical old maid. Try as I might, I can’t think of a single pleasant thing to tell you about Aunt Carrie. Unlike Grandma, who had a wonderful sense of humor and loved life, Aunt Carrie was persnickety and dull. She was as humor-less as a cranky goose. Fortunately, she spent most of her time in Elgin, so we didn’t see her too often. I must admit that when she did come to visit, my siblings and I got out of the way and let our parents put up with her.

My Great Aunt Harriet Flynn Studman

unt Hattie was the polar opposite of Aunt Carrie. Her personality was more like Grandma’s—she was just as dear and sweet as she could be. Aunt Hattie wasn’t the most beautiful woman in the world—dark hair, sturdy, a bit taller than Grandma—but she was jolly, sparkly, and kind. I never heard Aunt Hattie say a single cruel thing about anybody. Aunt Hattie and her husband, Uncle John, lived in a little house on our property. They had one daughter of their own, Gertrude, but they treated my siblings and me as if we, also, were their children. We loved to visit. As soon as Aunt Hattie heard our clatter on her doorstep, she’d run from her kitchen, wipe her flour-covered hands on her apron, and give us a big hug. She’d actually twinkle. There was no doubt—Aunt Hattie was thrilled to see us, and that was a wonderful feeling. Aunt Hattie more than made up for the cooking and baking Grandma didn’t do. I can still close my eyes and smell the wonderful

aromas of yeast breads, cinnamon-laced apple pies, sugar cookies, and chocolate cakes that wafted from Aunt Hattie’s kitchen. I loved to stop on the path before I reached her house and sniff the air. I’ve heard that aroma is over half of eating enjoyment, but I’m not sure I agree. Not much compares to that first bite of Aunt Hattie’s moist, rich, three-layer devil’s food cake swirled and swooped with chocolate fudge frosting.

My Great Aunt Dellora Baker Gates

ellora Baker Gates—Aunt Dell—was my great aunt on my mother’s side of the family. But before I tell you specifically about Aunt Dell, I want to unravel the rather complicated and not commonly understood lineage of the Texaco fortune. Our family’s fortune started with Aunt Dell’s husband—a colorful, rather roguish man—a man who, initially, had no connection to the Norris family. His name was John Warne Gates. John Gates was born on a farm in Turner Junction, West Chicago, in 1855. He earned the nickname Bet-a-Million—a name he never liked—from his all-or-nothing attitude toward gambling. John claimed that if people wanted to make things happen, they had to bet. In other words, I think he meant that people should take risks. Most people do take risks. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they don’t. John Gates was fortunate—when all was said and done, his risks worked. John Gates’s parents, Ansel Gates and Mary Warne Gates, were devout Christians who believed in God’s will. When John was six years old, they sent him to a one-room school where—much to their dismay— he spent more time playing tricks on his classmates than attending to his lessons. The teacher rapped John’s knuckles. John smirked at her reprimand. He didn’t like school and reveled in flaunting his ragtag attitude. John was at the bottom of his class, but he didn’t care. He got older. His deviltry got worse.

After school, John’s father was his taskmaster. John hated heavy farm work, so he’d hide from his father. As soon as the coast was clear, he’d escape to the woods and hunt squirrels. One afternoon, with his shotgun cocked, John stopped in his tracks. He had a flash of ingenuity—an idea that turned into his first money-making venture. He’d stumbled upon a copse of trees that needed attention. Squirrels forgotten, he ran home to fetch a tape measure, pencil, and piece of paper. His mission was to return to the woods and do some calculating. He asked himself, “How much wood can I get from each tree?” After all, in those days, everybody needed wood. John looked at his scribbled numbers. He smiled. Then he sat on a rock and schemed. John charmed his mother into lending him money. With the money in his pocket, he persuaded the land owner to sell his trees. Now for the real scheme: John talked his friends into cutting down the trees and hauling the wood to the lumberyard. John’s job was to sit, comfortably, at the lumberyard and negotiate the deal. By spring, John counted $1000—all his. But more importantly, he’d developed a lifelong philosophy: I will promote the Real Big Idea. Others will do the back-breaking work. Now a successful seventeen-year-old entrepreneur, John was ready for his next Real Big Idea. He observed that grain and corn were shipped in large quantities from his hometown. Confident that he’d be the perfect grain broker, he convinced his father to allow him to set up an office in their home. Well, regardless of his suave manners, John’s business failed. Farmers just didn’t trust a seventeen-year-old. John’s home life continued to deteriorate. His father increased his responsibilities on the farm. His mother fussed over his health and demanded that he help her with the housework. Again, John ran away to the woods. But this time, he wasn’t interested in squirrels or trees. His friends introduced him to poker. Rather quickly, John discovered he had a poker face and used it to rake in pots at the poker table. And even more important than cleaning out his friends’ pockets, John added to his lifelong philosophy: Everything is a risk. Sometimes you win. Sometimes you lose. I intend to win. Now a worldly eighteen-year-old, John turned his attention to another form of winning—girls. In the late 1800s, the best way to meet girls was to attend country dances. It was at a country dance in 1873 where John Warne Gates met my great aunt, Dellora Baker of St.

Aunt Dell told my mother, “My only hobby is to make people happy.”

Charles. “Aunt Dell,” as my mother called her, was my grandmother Lavern Baker Angell’s sister. You know—the grandmother who died before I knew her—the grandmother I discovered the day I went to the cemetery and learned why I have this horrible name. Anyway, Aunt Dell was one of three children. Because of her beauty and her family’s prominent position in the community, she was considered to be the Belle of St. Charles. John was in love. As the story goes, one evening at an oyster supper, John grabbed Aunt Dell’s plate and pushed himself to the head of the buffet line, so she’d be the first to eat. Aunt Dell wasn’t impressed. John wasn’t put off. He simply called on his newly formed philosophy and gambled. As he expected, John hit the jackpot. On February 25, 1874, Dellora Baker and John W. Gates were united in holy matrimony. For the first year of married life, John and Aunt Dell lived on the Gates’s farm. John resumed his grain trade but promptly lost all their money. Aunt Dell’s loss was even more difficult to accept—their first child was stillborn. Again, John used his charm and borrowed money from his father, so he could open a hardware store. Business was good, but John was restless. I think what happened next was either luck or fate. Or maybe it was John’s quest for the Real Big Idea. Or maybe it was his risk-taker attitude. In any case, John Gates was introduced to barbed wire, and eventually, to the world of big money. Barbed wire has an interesting history. When America was first settled, farmers fenced their fields and corralled their livestock with trees or stone. Then pioneers moved westward and found resources were different—trees and stones simply weren’t available. They needed a solution. In the early1830s, along came S.F. Dexter of Auburn, New York. Mr. Dexter had an idea—he patented a wire fence. Unfortunately, his fence was useless. The wire was brittle. It sagged. It broke when the

temperature changed. It snapped when livestock brushed against it. Obviously, the wire fence wasn’t a big seller. Some thirty years later, William D. Hunt of Scott County, New York discovered a solution to the problem—or so he thought. Mr. Hunt armed the wire with metal spurs, but they didn’t stay in place. Again, the wire fence wasn’t a big seller, and to make matters worse, ranchers were now angry. Actually, they were furious that they’d spent their money and wasted their time—twice—on a worthless fence. Fast forward to 1872. Three men from De Kalb, Illinois—Joseph Glidden, Jacob Haish, and Colonel Isaac Ellwood—attended a county fair. There they saw an exhibit displaying a strip of wood with steel barbs attached. Now, that was the solution. They went home and started producing miles and miles of barbed wire fence. Eventually, they decided Ellwood would be the supplier for the western sections of the country. Mr. Ellwood knew Texas—with its miles of open range and thousands of head of livestock—was ripe for their discovery. He also knew he couldn’t leave Illinois to sell barbed wire to Texas ranchers. Enter Peter McManus.

Brownie

It was Peter McManus who happened into John Gates’s hardware store and tempted him with the allure of barbed wire. John learned that because of barbed wire’s dark history, Texas ranchers were less than enthusiastic about the new barbed wire. One afternoon, Peter perched on a pickle barrel and warned, “John, if you want to know the truth, these cowhands are downright hostile.” John wasn’t scared. He was intrigued. The truth be known, he was every bit as intrigued with Mr. McManus’s fancy clothes and gambling prowess as he was with the notion of selling barbed wire. Nonetheless, he had a hunch that barbed wire just might be a risk worth taking—a risk that would lead to a fortune. One evening, John locked the door to the hardware store, walked home, and told Aunt Dell, “I’m off to Texas to sell barbed wire.” What was she to do but kiss him good-bye and hope? With only a few dollars in his pocket, John boarded the train for Texas—a yet unsettled territory populated with tough cowboys and craggy ranchers. To tell you that business was bad is an understatement. But it was. Cowboys chased John. Ranchers refused to talk to him. Over and over John was told, “Go away. This won’t work.” But John—armed with his resolve to find the Real Big Idea and his commitment to take a risk—refused to give up. He watched and waited. The answer to John’s dilemma came from a rather unlikely source. “Doctor” J.L. Lighthall was a fake—a medicine show hawker—who dressed in a pink frock coat and a white beaver hat. Doc was a oneman cure-all. He pulled rotten teeth, cured the common cold, relaxed aching muscles, and restored vigor to once virile men. And if that weren’t enough, on the side, he sold home cures concocted of skunk grease, wild onions, and rattlesnake oil. Did any of his tactics work? Probably not. However, spectators roared with laughter, and more importantly, they emptied their pockets. Night after night, John attended Doc’s show. Night after night, he learned more about the art of foolery. John admired Doc’s devil-maycare attitude and willingness to take a risk. One night, the Real Big Idea hit him. He couldn’t believe it took him so long to figure this one out. It was all so simple: I’ll put on a show. And put on a show he did. John rented the central plaza of San Antonio and held a kind of rodeo. Tough cowboys on bucking broncos lassoed little dogies. Trick riders raced around the arena. It was a Texas medicine show extraordinaire.

Mother in Port Arthur, Texas, circa 1909

A Flamboyant Life Style, Left to right: John Gates, Mary (Charlieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wife), Aunt Dell, Charlie, circa 1905

But the grand finale was what hooked the crowd. Bawling, stampeding longhorns crashed against the barbed wire fence. And the fence held. The crowd cheered and cheered some more. John counted his proceeds and resolved: Texas ranches will never be the same. Rather easily, John became a super salesman. The DeKalb plant couldn’t fill orders fast enough, but trouble brewed. John asked for profit sharing. Ellwood refused. John quit and went home to Aunt Dell. Back in St. Charles, he devoted the next several years to competing with Ellwood. In the late 1800s, he, Aunt Dell, and Charlie—their son— moved to Chicago where John collaborated to form the Consolidated Steel and Wire Company, American Steel & Wire, and Illinois Steel and Wire—all leading companies in the wire industry. Good times, however, didn’t last forever. The depression of the 1880s hit, and the only way John stayed in business was to slash prices to the proverbial bone. It was this risk that awarded him market share and attention from the big players in the industry—namely financier and philanthropist J.P. Morgan, the man who drew John to United States Steel. Well, time passed, and again, trouble brewed. John and Mr. Morgan feuded. Mr. Morgan barred John from U.S. Steel’s Board of Directors. John didn’t give up. He simply took another risk. Wooed by Arthur Stillwell, he invested in the Kansas City Southern Railroad. Again, there was a feud. Again, John was refused a seat on the Board of Directors. Again, John took another risk. He invested in a little East Texas oil company called “Spindletop Oil.” Eventually, John’s little company changed its name to Texaco. As with most stories, this story has two sides. As the family’s version goes, it was John’s son, Charlie, who was the brains behind John’s initial investment in oil. According to family lore, John’s right-hand-man sold him out to Morgan, so Charlie convinced his father to get involved with the oil business. Apparently, John never cared much about oil. However, regardless of how John got involved with Texaco, he did. And it was this risk that proved to be the Real Big Idea—it was this risk that led to his fortune. 015 John and Aunt Dell lived a flamboyant lifestyle. They owned homes in lovely locations worldwide. One home was in the New York Plaza Hotel—a hotel that if it weren’t for John Gates probably wouldn’t exist.

Aunt Dell, circa 1906

As the story goes, Brownie, John’s little Boston terrier, was a muchloved, continually-coddled, over-pampered member of the family. Well, the New York Waldorf Astoria’s guest policy banned dogs. If there was no room in the Waldorf for Brownie, there was no room in the Waldorf for John. John Gates had no alternative. He invested in the New York Plaza Hotel—a hotel for Brownie. It was during John’s financial heyday that my grandmother Lavern died. Of course, this left my nine-year-old mother motherless. My mother already thought the world of her Aunt Dell, so it seemed natural for Aunt Dell to step in as my mother’s second mother—a role Aunt Dell willingly and lovingly filled. Frequently, my mother traveled by train from St. Charles to New York where she stayed with Aunt Dell and Uncle John in the Plaza Hotel. I can’t tell you much about my mother’s relationship with John Gates. He was probably busy making deals. Who knows? Maybe she was a pest. But Aunt Dell certainly loved her, and she adored Aunt Dell. To my mother, living at the Plaza wasn’t a big deal. She had a good time and didn’t give a second thought to the opulence of the nineteenstory luxury hotel built on some of the most expensive real estate in New York City. The hotel’s marble lobbies, crystal chandeliers, fine Irish linens, and gold covered china didn’t impress my mother. My mother was interested in people—not things. She attended to a person’s character, but when it came to worldly possessions, she couldn’t be bothered. My mother was simply a little girl—a little girl who just happened to live in what was touted as “the greatest hotel in the world.” Like most little girls in that era, my mother wore a straw hat adorned with a big round brim and a long black ribbon that hung down her back. Mother never left the hotel without her hat or her dog. Complete with her dark hair, black pleated skirt, frilly white blouse, black patent leather shoes, and white knee socks, Mother was an Essential Eloise at the Plaza look-alike. And like Eloise, my mother was a gentle little girl who loved adventures in New York City. Aunt Dell enrolled Mother in a ballet class and arranged for John’s chauffeur to be her driver. As the shiny black limo rolled down New York City’s Fifth Avenue past Central Park, policemen tipped their hats and stopped traffic. My mother thought: My. My. These policemen are kind. It’s very nice of them to stop traffic for me. She waved and smiled

her appreciation. Well, I’m not sure what the New York City police force thought when they discovered a ten-year-old little girl outfitted in ballet shoes and a pink tutu riding in the backseat of John Gates’s car, but I can tell you that Mother was never late for her ballet lessons. John Gates owned a private railroad car. On occasion, Mother and Aunt Dell traveled from New York City to Port Arthur, Texas, in his car. Because Mother was susceptible to motion sickness, she preferred to ride on the car’s outside platform. Mother told me, “I’ll always remember one particular trip. I saw a little black boy sitting in a cotton field. He was smiling. He waved at me. I waved back. I couldn’t help but think: He’s lucky because he’s so happy.” Even as a child, my mother wanted people to be happy. 016 Generosity lived beside John Gates’s flamboyance. He used his money to help both Port Arthur, Texas and St. Charles, Illinois. His philanthropic contributions to Port Arthur were instrumental in the city’s early development. His contributions to Port Arthur include Port Arthur Business College, St. Mary’s Hospital, the Plaza Hotel, and the Gates Memorial Library. The plaque outside the library’s front door pays tribute to John and Aunt Dell. It reads: “John W. Gates (18551911), a noted financier and philanthropist, set aside land at this site for a public library. In 1917, through the efforts of his widow Dellora (1855-1918), this classical revival library was completed. It was designed by the New York firm of Warren & Westmore, architects of several New York landmarks, including Grand Central Station. Deeded to the city of Port Arthur in 1918, the library is now a part of Lamar University at Port Arthur. Recorded Texas Historic Landmark.” In Saint Charles, John used his money to build The Boy’s Home—an orphanage out in the country that took in homeless boys from Chicago. 018 John Gates died August 9, 1911. His fortune—a fortune estimated to be between $40,000,000 and $50,000,000—was willed to Aunt Dell and Charlie. As the story goes, Charlie was quite the playboy. I think he tried to be like his father but missed. In my opinion, sometimes when children are born to a dynamic individual such as John Gates, they sort of live in their parent’s shadow. I’m not exactly sure what happened, but family lore has it that Charlie died in Cody, Wyoming, after attending a rather raucous party with his good friend, the legendary Buffalo Bill

Greyhound, King of Trotters

Cody. I do know he was only thirty-seven years old, and his half of the fortune went to Aunt Dell. For the next five years, Aunt Dell lived alone in their suite in the Plaza Hotel. My mother told me that Aunt Dell was a quiet, pleasant woman who shunned social affairs. Often, Aunt Dell would say to my mother, “My only hobby is to make people happy.” I guess the proverbial apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. 017 On November 28, 1918, Aunt Dell died suddenly and left the estate to her brother, Edward James Baker, and my mother, Dellora Frances Angell. Now you understand. That’s how—at eighteen years old—my mother became heiress to the Texaco fortune.

My Great Uncle Edward James Baker

dward James Baker was my great uncle and my godfather. I knew Uncle Ed very well and was extremely fond of him. Uncle Ed married Harriet Rockwell, and they had one son, Henry. Unfortunately, when Henry was in his early twenties, he died from tuberculosis. This tragedy was difficult for Uncle Ed and Aunt Harriet

Uncle Ed, 1949

to accept. Actually, I don’t think they ever got over it. I don’t know for sure, but I believe Henry’s untimely death is what drove them apart. I do know they didn’t spend much time together. Uncle Ed loved farming, but Aunt Harriet wasn’t interested. She was an intellectual and preferred to sit in the house and read. Uncle Ed had many, many friends. One of his best friends was a Catholic priest. Well, Uncle Ed was a staunch Methodist and contributed lots of money to the Methodist church in St. Charles. Now, don’t ask me the connection here because I’ve never figured it out, but I can tell you that Uncle Ed and the priest were good friends. Most likely, Uncle Ed also supported the Catholic Church. After Uncle Ed received his share of the family’s fortune, he bought farms. I can still close my eyes and see Uncle Ed puffing on his everpresent cigar, surrounded by his beautiful white collies, headed out early in the morning to check on his farms. He loved his farms and was good to his farmers. Fittingly, Uncle Ed’s farms prospered. When my brother Johnny was only about eight, he worked on one of Uncle Ed’s farms. Most of Uncle Ed’s farmers raised cattle, and this farm was no exception. Johnny’s main responsibility was to milk the cows. One particular cow was a favorite with the barn cats. They gathered around and waited, patiently, for Johnny to squirt milk into their mouths. There was no doubt—at least to the kitties—milking cows was Johnny’s most important job on the farm. The love of animals is embedded in my family’s DNA, and Uncle Ed was close to the top of the chain. Along with investing in farms, he used money from the family’s fortune to buy fine race horses—primarily trotters and pacers—and establish eight horse farms in the greater St. Charles area. I don’t remember which Kentucky governor it was, but one of them gave Uncle Ed the honorary title of “Colonel Baker”—a fitting tribute to his passion for horses. Uncle Ed’s most famous race horse was a trotter named Greyhound, who was also known as the Grey Ghost or the King of Trotters. In his heyday, Greyhound set twenty-five world records including his 1938 record of running the mile in 1:55—a record he held for thirty-one years. In the 1970s, Greyhound was named trotter of the century. Interestingly, Greyhound was initially a victim of the Great Depression. During the Depression, the breeding business was so bad that when Greyhound was

Uncle Ed was generous to the city of St. Charles.

a yearling, he was castrated and sold at auction for $900. Greyhound’s start in racing came when he won a race with a payoff of $75. By 1935, he was a celebrity and went on to win lifetime earnings of over $55,000, which in the 1930s was a lot of money. 073 It was Uncle Ed who introduced me to horses. My lifelong passion for horses started when Uncle Ed gave me and my siblings our first pony. We named our pony Cricket, and I fell in love. I could hardly wait for Uncle Ed to take me to the horse races. Back then children were permitted to attend horse races. I didn’t gamble. But I wasn’t there to gamble. I was there to be with Uncle Ed, watch the horses run, and have lots of fun. I felt comfortable talking with Uncle Ed about anything and everything. I remember one time I had a rather complicated problem with the Methodist church. Uncle Ed listened carefully. Then, he jumped through lots of hoops and helped me solve my problem. Uncle Ed didn’t say too much. He simply went ahead and did whatever needed to be done, and, almost always, he got whatever he went after. Uncle Ed was generous to the city of St. Charles. He loved the city and donated large amounts of his money and seemingly limitless hours of his time to make it beautiful and add to its amenities. Like my parents, Uncle Ed was good to people. One of his special interest groups was the Boy Scouts—an organization to which he donated countless hours and thousands of dollars. He believed in improving his community and used his money to build public projects such as the Baker Community Center, the Methodist Church, and the Main Street Bridge. 019 Uncle Ed’s most famous gift to St. Charles is the Hotel Baker. In 1926, he bought the site of the old Haines Mill on the Fox River and hired local architects Wolf, Sexton, Harper, and Trueax to design the “biggest small hotel” ever. The plans combined the latest technology with Spanish Romantic Revival architecture. The completed building exceeded everyone’s expectations.

Hotel Baker’s grand opening celebration took place in June of 1928. I was only five years old and too young to attend, but I remember hearing about the wonderful party. Over three hundred guests got their first glimpse of what Uncle Ed called his “pride and joy.” The hotel had fifty-five custom designed rooms. Interestingly, guests could spend the night in one of these beautiful rooms for a grand total of $2.50. The hotel had shops, a women’s clothing store, a barber shop, and a beauty shop. In keeping with the family’s interest in protecting the environment, Uncle Ed harnessed the natural power of the Fox River to supply the hotel’s electricity. Uncle Ed wanted the hotel to have a resort feeling. His original plan was for the grounds to include an extensive park along the river front. But he had problems with the design, so instead, he created beautiful gardens planted with thousands of roses and ornamented with statues of animals and gnomes. Lanterns illuminated walkways that led to the boathouse where guests sat under colored umbrellas and watched the river or rented an authentic Venetian gondola complete with a singing gondolier. When these gondolas floated down the river, they were illuminated with candles that were referred to as “fairy lights.” If guests wanted to be a bit more active, they practiced putting on the small putting green. Everything about the hotel was luxurious. It received national recognition and became known fondly as the “Honeymoon Hotel.” The hotel’s showpieces were the Trophy and Rainbow Rooms. The Trophy Room was so named because of the hundreds of trophies that were on display. It imitated a Spanish courtyard complete with balconies, awnings, a fountain, and a simulated sky. The Rainbow Room was a two-story oval ballroom surrounded by a balcony. Its name came from its oval glassblock dance floor. I’ll never forget that dance floor. It was constructed of glass and had almost three thousand red, green, blue, and amber lights that lit up beneath the floor and created spectacular patterns. Guests felt as if they’d been transported to a fantasy world. At that time, it was one of only three lighted dance floors in the world. In the hotel’s heyday, guests from all over the world traveled to hear first-class entertainers such as Louis Armstrong, Tommy Dorsey, Guy Lombardo, Lawrence Welk, and Eddie Duchin. It wasn’t unusual to see names of famous people on the guest book. I remember that

Adlai Stevenson, Richard Daly, Billy Graham, and John F. Kennedy all stayed at the hotel. The guests usually arrived by chauffeured limo, and, often, Uncle Ed himself greeted them. Because Uncle Ed was a staunch republican, the hotel became headquarters for the Republican Party. All the glamour made the hotel an exciting place to see and be seen. For thirty-one years, Uncle Ed lived in an apartment on the fifth floor of the hotel. When he died in 1959 at age ninety-one, my mother inherited Hotel Baker. My mother had no interest in running a hotel. She tried to sell it but couldn’t find a qualified buyer. So she gave the hotel to the Lutheran Social Services of Illinois, and it became a home for retired people. The upper floors of the hotel were restricted to residents’ use, but the main areas remained open to the public. My husband and I held our son’s wedding rehearsal dinner at the hotel. I remember thinking: My. My. It’s nice that all the old people can look down from the balconies and enjoy the festivities right along with us. It’s amazing how my perspective of old people has changed. I learned a lesson from Uncle Ed’s death—a lesson I’ll pass on to you now: Take care of your financial matters before you die. Uncle Ed left his share of the family’s fortune to my mother. Because he didn’t have a plan, well over seventy percent of the money went to the government. This didn’t create issues with family members. However, I want you to think about something: My parents were generous with their money. But Uncle Sam? You decide.

Mother

Mother, 1960

My Mother Dellora Frances Angell Norris

y mother, Dellora Frances Angell Norris, was born December 23, 1902, in St. Charles, Illinois. Somehow, she escaped the family’s horrible name tradition. Mother was named Dellora after her aunt, Dellora Baker Gates and Frances after her father, Robert Francis Angell. My father called her “Dee,” and, eventually, everybody thought Dee was her name. Dee is a nice name. Why wasn’t I that lucky? Anyway, compared to the rest of us, Mother was petite. She was about five-feet, four-and-one-half inches tall and wore a size four-andone-half shoe. This is silly, but you might as well know that Mother’s shoe size annoyed me. By the time I was ten, my foot was much bigger than Mother’s, so I couldn’t wear her shoes to play dress-up. She had big eyes. They were dark hazel—almost brown—but definitely hazel. Her hair was brown-black. I look a great deal like her except I’m twice her size. Mother was a happy person. She never frowned. Even if you didn’t know her, you could tell by the smile on her face and the look in her eyes that she was kind. Mother loved everybody. She had a way of drawing people to her. She was like a magnet—her energy field radiated out and pulled people in, and the closer they got, the closer they wanted to be. Mother had an unselfish way of bringing out the best in anyone and everyone.

Mother and Dad, Wedding Day, Pasadena, California, March 28, 1923

My mother grew up in St. Charles. She loved St. Charles and made a lifelong commitment to her community. Mother told me repeatedly, “One of life’s true blessings is the friends you make and keep.” True to her belief, many of Mother’s childhood friends remained friends for a lifetime. Lois McCormick was one such friend. Mother loved to tell about the trip she and Lois took to Europe.

As the story goes, my grandparents decided it was time for the girls to experience other cultures. So they planned a European adventure, and off they went—Mother, Lois, and my grandparents. Everyone loved the art museums and the historic landmarks. It was tradition at its finest, but somehow the dignity of the sights didn’t seem to justify constant girlgiggles. My grandparents were mystified. But they sighed and concluded, “Oh well. Girls will be girls.” The vacation and the mysterious giggles continued. About two days before boarding the ship for home, the mystery was solved. Grandpa was thirsty. He took a big gulp of the girls’ apple cider—the apple cider they’d sipped through European country after European country. At this point in the story, Mother just laughed. The apple cider’s state of fermentation didn’t require an explanation. Wilda, who was my mother’s dearest friend, lived across the street. “Aunt Willie,” as my siblings and I called her, was a dear, sweet person. Mother and Aunt Willie shared good times and bad times and remained close for their entire lives. A highlight of their life together was when Aunt Willie traveled from Illinois to California to attend my mother’s wedding—an event that had germinated almost two thousand miles away at the grammar school in St. Charles, Illinois. 021 My parents first noticed each other the year my mother was in the fourth grade and my father was in the sixth grade. Mother never told me what attracted her to my father, but whatever it was, it must have been obvious. The kids teased her relentlessly. “Oh, you’re going to be Mrs. Norris someday.” She’d get all embarrassed, but, apparently, her red face was nothing compared to my father’s glow. I don’t know how close my parents were in grammar school. Perhaps they were girlfriend and boyfriend, but if they were, my mother didn’t reveal the details. I can tell you that when my mother was in her twenties and dating my father, they spent many an evening watching movies in Chicago. At that time, my father worked as a cartoonist for the Chicago Tribune, and his job was to create cartoons based on the vaudeville acts that were performed before the featured movies. Often, his first sketch wasn’t quite right, so they’d sit through several runs of the same movie. I guess it’s a good thing that vaudeville is interesting. Many entertainers went from performing in local vaudeville shows to staring in Hollywood movies. For example, our little theatre in

Miami Beach, Left to right: Mother, Dad, Aunt Willie, circa 1924

St. Charles was the last place Burns and Allen played vaudeville before they became famous movie stars. 027 cartoons Back then going to the movies was a real occasion. Our ticket bought us much more than just the featured show. The newsreel was first. We didn’t have television, but we could keep up with world events by watching the Universal-International Newsreel. The “U-I Newsreel,” as it was called, was released twice a week. Each issue contained six or seven short stories—usually one or two minutes in length—covering world events, politics, sports, fashion, cartoons, and whatever else might inform and entertain audiences. The travel log was next. We’d learn about faraway places such as Africa and Australia and China. Then came the vaudeville act. Each evening’s bill of performance featured a series of separate, unrelated acts. Musicians, dancers, comedians, male and female impersonators, minstrels, acrobats, and even trained animals took turns on center stage. Some were good. Some were horrible. But we enjoyed them all. The theatres were elaborate—very different from theatres of today. Many were so grand people nicknamed them “picture palaces.” Exteriors of the theatres were often gaudy. Inside, smartly uniformed ushers led guests up plush carpeted stairs to the comfy seats positioned under stars that glowed from the high ceiling. Often, theatres featured an orchestra

pit and a huge Mighty Wurlitzer organ. Our little theatre in St. Charles was especially pretty. Anyway, back to my parents when they were dating. Besides going to the theatre, they enjoyed dances. I vaguely remember them talking about dances in Pottawattamie Park—a small park on the banks of the river in St. Charles. Other than that, their dating days are fuzzy. Shortly after Grandfather Angell married Grandma Esther, the family moved to Lake Forrest, Illinois, where my mother attended Ferry Hall—an all-girls boarding school. Then they moved to Pasadena, California, where my mother graduated from Miss Orton’s Classical School for Girls. During those years, I really don’t know how in the world my mother and father kept their relationship alive. I do know on occasion my mother dated other people, but she never forgot my father. She told me, “From the time I was in the fourth grade, I liked your dad. He was always number one.” I can’t tell you how my father proposed to my mother. Nor can I tell you about their engagement. I can tell you that they were married March 28, 1923, in Pasadena, California. It was a small, quiet wedding— just family and close friends. I look at their wedding picture and laugh. Mother wore one of the most hideous dresses I’ve seen in my entire life. She told me repeatedly, “This certainly isn’t a dress I’ll hand down to my daughters. I wouldn’t wish this wedding dress on anyone.” It was absolutely terrible. The dress looked more like a beaded lampshade than a dress. I guess in 1923 it was fashionable. But I don’t mind telling you I’m happy Mother didn’t expect me to wear that dress for my wedding. My parents epitomized the meaning of “life partners.” For almost six decades, they complemented and completed each other. What they had together is difficult to explain, but the word “close” comes to mind. Even though the family fortune officially belonged to my mother, my father managed it. She trusted him completely. They each had opinions, and, occasionally, they’d argue. They never quarreled in front of me and my siblings, so I’m not exactly sure why and to what extent they disagreed. I do know, however, that somewhere along the line they’d compromise. As far as making the important decisions, Mother usually stayed in the background. Dad was the idea-man, and Mother was his agreeable companion. I could tell by the things my parents did for each other—

Dad’s Vaudeville Cartoons, Most of his cartoons burned in a fire on Keewaydin. I think we could use a fairly lengthly caption here. 027

both the big things and the little things—that they loved each other very, very much. My parents weren’t the type of people who openly showed their love for each other, but there was no doubt about their mutual devotion. Mother dreamed of becoming a nurse, but nursing remained only a dream. Her life was full in many, many other ways. My dad quipped frequently, “Instead of nursing, Dee decided to take an easy job—she raised five kids. Then she satisfied her interest in medicine by building a hospital and a medical center.” And that she did. In 1940, Mother

we could continue the caption on this page as well. 027

founded Delnor Hospital in St. Charles. She donated money for everythingâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;the land, the building, the equipment. Then in 1970, she donated more funds and more land to build Delnor Medical Centerâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;a facility that attracted new physicians to St. Charles. In her quiet, generous way, Mother made a lifetime commitment to bolstering the St. Charles community. I know this reads like a laundry list, but it documents my motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s passion for contributing her time and her money to reach out and make life better for other people. She gave money to Two Rivers Council to build an administration building

for the Boy Scouts of America and later set up an endowment fund to maintain the building. She made annual contributions to help churches of all denominations. She gave a seventy-acre site for the St. Charles High School and money to construct adjacent recreational and cultural arts centers. She gave fifty-one acres of wooded river frontage for the site of Saint Dominic’s College. She donated the site for the St. Charles Municipal Center and provided money so the city could build a second bridge over the river. She donated river frontage for a nine-hole golf course that adjoins Pottawattamie Park. The golf course was designed by Robert Trent Jones. And you may be interested in knowing that it was Mr. Jones who taught me to drive a stick-shift. During World War II, Mother was chair of the Red Cross civilian defense unit in St. Charles. She was a charter member of the St. Charles Mother’s Club. She was interested in gardening and became the president of the St. Charles Pottawattamie Garden Club. Mother was a member of the St. Charles Chamber of Commerce and the St. Charles Women’s Club. She was a lifetime trustee of Delnor Hospital and the Henry Rockwell Baker Memorial Community Center. She was a member of St. Charles Charities, a governing life member and benefactor of the Art Institute of Chicago, and a life member of the Chicago Historical Society. She served as a director of the Miami Heart Institute Inc., the Illinois Education Association, and the American Museum of Natural History. 022 Awards weren’t important to Mother. When news reporters asked questions and popped flashbulbs, mother retreated. Nonetheless, her accomplishments spoke for themselves. Regardless of her reluctance to be in the limelight, her generosity was acknowledged. She received the Charlemagne Award—the highest honor given to a citizen of St. Charles in recognition of individual contributions for the betterment of the community. The Illinois Teachers Association presented her with its Frances G. Blair Award—an award given to the person who did the most for education in Illinois. I know it’s a dichotomy. Nonetheless, it’s true—regardless of Mother’s community involvement, she was basically a homebody. I think—even as an adult—Mother felt the pangs of an uprooted childhood, and she refused to allow her children to endure the same loneliness. Early on, Mother decided she’d stay home with us and be a

My mother was a person who, monetarily, could have almost anything she wanted in the world. But she didn’t want things. Her greatest desire was to have a close family.

hands-on mother. And she was. Mother was never employed outside our home. Nor did she allow her community projects to interfere with our needs. She loved her children, her husband, and her home more than anything in the world. With that said, Dad traveled a lot, and, occasionally, Mother agreed to go with him. I remember the little suitcase she kept packed with toiletries and a change of clothes. Everything she needed for a short trip was ready to grab at a moment’s notice. My father made split-second travel decisions, and, from experience, Mother knew he wouldn’t hang around waiting for her to pack her toothbrush. Mother wasn’t a great cook, and she didn’t sew. But she did crochet. She rarely sat down, but when she did, she’d crochet. I think that was her way of relaxing. I remember beautiful afghans and delicate baby things that had a way of appearing from what was once just a ball of yarn. I was too much of an outdoors person to sit still long enough to learn to crochet, but I was impressed with Mother’s skill. I still treasure a lovely apricot and beige afghan she made for me. Mother also enjoyed golf, and, on occasion, she did some traveling. I preferred tennis and horseback riding to golf, so we didn’t play much golf together, but we were compatible travel companions. Mother employed a cook, a butler, and various governesses. However, there was never any doubt about who managed our home. Everyone knew that Mother ruled. The governesses mainly took care of my brothers, Bob and Johnny, so I didn’t have much contact with them. Actually, I’m not even sure why we called them “governesses.” They certainly weren’t governesses in the strict sense of the word. Anyway, I do remember a couple of these so-called governesses who I thought were pretty horrible. Mother never found out, but one spanked us. Mother and Dad didn’t spank us—they sent us to our rooms

Mother, Chair of Red Cross Civil Defense Unit in St. Charles, circa 1942

for misbehavior—so spanking wasn’t acceptable in our home. I could never figure out why this governess spanked me, but it was probably because I talked back to her. She was an odd governess. She could be lots of fun, but, oh, she could be mean, and I didn’t like her one bit. Anyway, good governesses or bad governesses—without fail—it was Mother who tucked us into bed and kissed us good-night. Ella, our cook, and her husband Leroy, our butler, lived with us for many years. Even though Ella was eighty-some years old, she refused to retire until after Mother died. One of Leroy’s jobs was to vacuum. I still laugh when I think about him buzzing around with his vacuum cleaner practicing his NAACP speeches. My father helped Leroy write those speeches, so I don’t think that made him too popular with the organization. Leroy had a number of children by a previous marriage. One son, Junior, or “Junie” as we called him, lived in Saint Louis with his uncle. Well, Junie developed a tumor on his leg, and, of course, Leroy was concerned. One day, Junie’s uncle called Leroy and announced, “I can’t take care of your boy any longer. I don’t know what to do for him.” So my father insisted that Leroy go to St. Louis and figure out what Junie needed. If Leroy couldn’t find help in St. Louis, he was to bring Junie to St. Charles, and my parents would take care of him. And that’s exactly what happened. Junie lived with us for a number of years, and in their typical way, my parents did everything they could to help him. My brother Johnny and Junie became good friends. They loved to camp out in the backyard and do boy things together. Unfortunately, Junie’s condition didn’t improve, so he had to have his leg amputated, and he died soon after. This was difficult for all of us, but it was especially hard on Johnny. He was only nine when Junie died, and he missed his buddy. Ella was a wonderful cook. Many delicious foods were created in her kitchen, but my very favorite was coconut cake. I loved coconut cake. Mother loved coconut cake. No one else in the family wanted anything to do with coconut cake. On my birthday, I asked for coconut cake. As you can probably guess, my request didn’t exactly put me in the running for the Most Popular Sibling Award. But Mother and I didn’t care. We poured tall glasses of cold milk, sat at the table, and ate the entire cake. It was our birthday ritual.

Our household help didn’t wear uniforms—they were more like family than hired help. We all ate dinner together at the long table in the dining room. This was tradition, and we were expected to be there. Actually, we wanted to be there. Mother sat at one end of the table; Dad sat at the other end; and the rest of us sat in our customary chairs along the sides. Our table was always covered with a starched, ironed white linen table cloth. Companion napkins were laid neatly at each place. I’m not sure if paper plates and paper napkins had been introduced, but I can tell you that even if they had been, you’d never find them in Dellora Norris’s dining room. My parents taught me and my siblings proper table manners. We learned the normal things—to say “please” and “thank you,” to sit up straight, to keep our elbows off the table, and to know what spoon, fork, and knife to use for what course. We didn’t think about it. We just did it. Along with proper table manners, our family—or at least Mother and Dad—enforced the clean plate rule: Whatever was put on our plates, we ate. Mother’s interpretation of the rule was we had to take at least one bite of everything. Dad’s version, however, was more rigid. We had to clean our plates. Well, I didn’t like liver. I never served myself liver. I preferred to ignore it. But one evening, there it was—a big piece of liver staring at me from the center of my plate. I didn’t eat it. The next evening, there it was—that same piece of purple-brown, shoe-leather-tough liver. But this time it was the only thing on my plate. I was stubborn. I didn’t eat it. The next evening, there it was. I didn’t eat it. Well, Mother had regular food patterns, and I knew liver night was coming up again soon. I thought: Oh my word. It’s going to be liver night again, and I still have this old, worn-out piece on my plate. Besides that, I’m hungry. I plotted silently: Dempsey, Mother’s Great Dane, likes liver. I wonder if he’d like my liver. Then I waited and watched. Don’t ask me to explain, but somehow, Mother managed to keep Dempsey out of the dining room for an unprecedented entire week. Regardless of my flawless plan, I wasn’t able to slip Dempsey the liver. The last night Mother gave up. There was the dog—all ninety pounds of him—greedily gnawing away on that disgusting liver. The story does have a happy ending: Liver never again showed up on my plate.

I felt close to my mother. I talked with her about anything and everything. She was a wise woman. I learned many, many things from her. I’d sit and wonder: Why is it okay to cross my ankles, but never, never, never cross my legs? When I was young, I didn’t appreciate my how-tobe-a-lady lessons, but as I matured, I realized my mother cared enough to teach me gentility—an art that has proven to be invaluable time and time again. Mother’s guidance didn’t stop with proper lady lessons. She taught me manners. She taught me discretion. She taught me cordiality. She had words of wisdom about how to treat people, how to accept people. I’d listen to her advice and think: Well, this is important. Then as youngsters do, I’d go about my business. But eventually, the meaning of her words sunk in. I came to realize that Mother’s words weren’t just words. She lived them, and, through her example, I learned. She taught me how to avoid saying unkind things about people. She taught me how to get to know difficult people. She taught me how to look for good qualities in people. She taught me how to tell the truth no matter what. She taught me how to nurture a close family. My mother was a person who, monetarily, could have almost anything she wanted in the world. But she didn’t want things. Her greatest desire was to have a close family. And she did. No matter what she was involved with during the day, she’d be home by the time we arrived home from school. As soon as I opened our front door, I’d stand at the bottom of the stairs and call out, “Mom, I’m home!” Within the five seconds it took her to answer, I’d be out-and-about doing whatever important stuff I had to do. Her answer was lost in dead silence. All I wanted was reassurance—reassurance that my mother was home. After school, we’d change our clothes and get something to eat. I usually had an apple. Then we’d go outdoors and play. As we got older, we had homework—homework that had to be finished before dinner. Mother was strict about the homework rule. And I must tell you that my mother had a quick temper, but it didn’t flare for very long. When we did something we shouldn’t do, she’d send us to our room, and that was it—our transgression was soon forgotten. Usually, when we asked Mother if we could do something or other, she’d tell us to ask our father. Our standard come-back was, “But there’s no point in asking Dad. He’ll tell us, ‘No!’ But if we ask you, we know

what the answer will be.” And we were correct. It didn’t take very many “Nos!” to figure out which parent to ask when we wanted something really important. Not only was Mother physically present in our home, she was emotionally available. It didn’t matter how minor or how serious our aches and pains were or what kind of problems we had in school or with friends, Mother was always there to help us get through the hard times. Actually, my father was the same. My mother was a spiritual—a religious—person. She belonged to the United Methodist Church of St. Charles. She taught my siblings and me how to lead a good life—how to be kind to everybody. Mother went to church with us every Sunday. She taught us to say our prayers, and we were brought up to believe in God and Jesus. It wasn’t anything she forced upon us. It was just everyday living. Although she raised us as Methodists, even Mother had to admit Methodists could be an odd group. The strict Methodists don’t smoke, don’t drink, don’t dance. Quite frankly, they’re not much fun. I remember Grandfather Norris telling us that he took a Methodist oath promising he wouldn’t smoke or drink. And he didn’t—except at Christmas when we’d have plum pudding with brandy sauce. Grandpa loved the brandy sauce and poured it liberally over his serving of plum pudding. When I got older, I got up the nerve to say, “Grandpa, you tell us we shouldn’t smoke, and we shouldn’t drink, but you always take the sauce with brandy.” He shot me an icy stare and replied, “I took the pledge not to drink. I said nothing about eating brandy sauce.” End of discussion. I followed the spiritual values I was taught—honesty, kindness, helpfulness. I practiced each of these. But I must tell you that there were some teachings of the Methodist church—particularly the strict Methodist church—I couldn’t accept. We weren’t supposed to dance. We weren’t supposed to go to the movies. How could we not go to the movies? Our father built the movie theatre. This was plain silly. The congregation in our church was split. Half of the people were very strict. Half of the people were rather broad-minded. My brother Brud and I were broad-minded. We did our best to form a group for young people that would meet in the basement of the church every

Friday evening to dance and socialize. Our reasoning was sound: This was during WWII and because our country was involved in so many things, young people were sort of left out. Even though our liberal minister fully supported our idea, the congregation forbade us from carrying out our plans. I told Brud that I thought they were a bunch of fuddy-duddies. Discipline wasn’t a problem for my family. My siblings and I were good kids. My parents taught us right from wrong, and we accepted their rules. As I got older, I realized how important my siblings and I were to our parents. Their life revolved around us, and—in turn—our lives revolved around them. It’s difficult to explain exactly what this meant—and still means to me—but the word that comes to my mind is “family.” We were asked for our opinions about decisions that involved us. I remember when I was about fourteen years old my parents learned about Frannie and Jack—a young sister and brother who were downand-out and had nobody to help them. Their mother died of cancer, and six months later their father dropped dead from a heart attack. I don’t remember how my parents knew of these young people, but I do remember my parents were interested in helping Frannie and Jack. Because their parents were from Scotland, Frannie and Jack didn’t have family members who lived in the United States. This caused a problem for the executor of the estate—he didn’t know what to do with the children. So, with the funds available, he sent Frannie to a private school in Aurora, Illinois and Jack to a Masonic orphanage. My grandparents wanted Frannie to spend the summer with my mother’s half-sister Roberta. Well, Mother and Dad didn’t particularly care for that idea, so they went to Aurora to meet Frannie and consider her future. After Mother and Dad arrived home, they called me into the library. I knew from experience that a library talk wasn’t about the weather— something really big, really important was brewing. Mother and Dad explained Frannie’s situation and told me that they didn’t think it would be an advantage for her to live with Roberta for the summer. My mother said, “What do you think about Frannie living with us? We want your opinion before we talk with Frannie.” I said, “Frankly, it would be lovely to have an older sister live with us.” The upshot of this was Frannie didn’t live with Roberta. Instead, my parents saw to it that she continued her education, and every vacation she

lived in our house. To my delight, Frannie and I became close—much like sisters. Frannie was a nice person, but what a sad, sad life she had. As an adult, she traveled to Edinburgh to meet her family, but she could only locate cousins. There was never anyone from her original family who was close to her. My parents wanted to keep Jack and Frannie together. My family accepted Jack just as we accepted Frannie, and we wanted him to live with us. Unfortunately, despite my parents’ best intentions and diligent efforts, they couldn’t get Jack out of the orphanage, so he lived there until he was eighteen. Then because of World War II, he was drafted immediately into the Army. I’m sorry to tell you that even though my parents did their best to provide Frannie and Jack with the feeling of what it means to have a family, they were never close. And I’m sorry for them. Unlike many people who have lots of money, my parents weren’t interested in the see-and-be-seen lifestyle of Chicago’s North Shore elites. Their social life was low key. To my parents, a good time meant inviting their friends from St. Charles to our home for dinner or taking ballroom dancing lessons at a little club next to the Arcada Theatre. I wasn’t permitted to go to the club very often, but I do remember that Fred Astaire/Ginger Rogers style dancing was quite the thing to do. Until my mother developed emphysema, she was never sick. There’s no doubt—her disease was the result of too many cigarettes. It’s hard to believe her doctor recommended smoking, but it’s true. He did. Mother had just managed to take off the weight she’d gained from her first three pregnancies when—surprise—there she was pregnant again. Somewhat horrified, she thought: Oh, good grief. Now what am I supposed to do? She talked to her doctor, and his advice was clear: “Mrs. Norris, instead of eating, smoke a cigarette.” Can you imagine? Well, my mother followed her doctor’s orders. She certainly didn’t want to be fat, so she smoked—heavily. I was the only one in my family who didn’t smoke, so I wasn’t wise in the ways of cigarette smoking, but those who were told me that my mother didn’t inhale. She just puffed, and puffed, and puffed. All I know is that she was enveloped by a constant cloud of smoke. Whether Mother inhaled or whether she didn’t isn’t all that important. What matters is my mother died from emphysema—a

degenerative condition precipitated by smoking. Ironically, my brother Bob was one of the original Marlboro Men. You know—the rugged cowboys, out in nature, riding a horse, smoking a cigarette. Anyway, Mother was an active person. She moved fast and hardly ever sat down. “Peppy” describes her perfectly. Mother never walked up the stairs—she ran. However, after she was diagnosed with emphysema, her life changed drastically. She could only walk a short distance before she had to sit and rest. Mother had a breathing machine she couldn’t live without. This machine had long cords, but they only extended just so far. When she moved from room to room, she’d plug in her machine again, and again, and again. Mother had a smaller machine that she carried with her when she went out; unfortunately, she couldn’t go out very often. She’d go to the beauty parlor and do simple errands around town, but that was the extent of her getting out of the house. The last two years of her life Mother needed regular medical help, so my father hired Philomena, who was a wonderful caregiver. My mother stopped smoking and often advised others to avoid cigarettes. However, it was too late for her. Every so often, she was admitted to the hospital for a treatment. The treatments couldn’t cure her disease, but at least they helped her feel a little better. In 1979, Mother knew the family was coming home for Christmas. She wanted to have a treatment before we arrived, so she could enjoy the holidays. I’m not sure what happened, but during her treatment something went wrong, and she sunk into a coma. One day ran into the next—no one knew what to expect. I don’t remember the exact timing, but I think she was in the coma for about two weeks. I do remember we were all confused and scared. I was in Chicago and traveled back and forth from there to St. Charles to be with her. We were blessed in that the entire family was at her bedside when she died. I knew my mother was going to die. I was expecting her to die. But her passing was a very sad—a very difficult—time for me. My mother was a generous benefactor, an unpretentious woman, a loving wife, a caring mother, a good friend, and a gracious lady. Her St. Charles Chronicle obituary stated, “The angel of St. Charles is dead.” Although the death of Dellora Frances Angell Norris marked the end of her life, it didn’t mark the end of her legacy.

Father

Dad, 1946

My Father Lester J. Norris

y father was born November 26, 1900, in Elgin, Illinois. I don’t know the year his family moved to St. Charles. Nor do I know why they settled in this small, attractive Midwestern town. I do know St. Charles is where my father grew up. The name on his birth certificate is Lester Norris. I don’t think my grandfather knew the origin of his son’s name, but I do. My grandmother named my father Lester after her once-upon-a-time boyfriend. As an adult, people confused him with another Lester Norris, who also lived in the Chicago area, so my father added the J to his name. Unfortunately, the other man followed suit. Of course, everyone was still confused. 023 My father was a handsome man—so handsome, he was occasionally mistaken for the actor Robert Taylor. My father had curly, dark brown hair, and dark brown eyes, and he stood about five-feet-eight. He insisted, “I’m five-nine.” I didn’t contradict him, but I knew he wasn’t that tall. I’m five-eight, and we were the same height. My grandmother told me that my father was a mischievous child—a child who was always into something, always trying to make something, always trying something new. I don’t think he was mischievous. I think he was creative. My father loved to tell his horseradish story. When he was only about ten years old, he set out to sell horseradish. However, he encountered a slight problem—no one bought his product. My father thought and

thought and thought: What’s the problem here? Finally, the solution came to him: People just aren’t interested in buying horseradish that’s a bit on the dark side. I guess I should clean the roots. Once he improved quality control, his business boomed. I’m convinced my father was an entrepreneur from the get-go. My father lived in perpetual motion. Even my active mother admitted, “Lester exhausts me.” He was a visionary with a mind that never stopped. If he had a slow time, it was early morning, but late at night, he’d be busy. My father couldn’t let something be. He was forever challenging, forever questioning, forever improving. It took me many, many years to understand how his mind worked. When I was a child, it seemed as if we were always arguing about one thing or another. I’d express my opinion. He’d express his. And off we’d go—banging my stubbornness against his, exasperating my mother, and boring my siblings. In my mind, no matter how hard I fought, I never won. Finally, I realized the truth: I was the big winner. My father taught me how to think. Because he didn’t hesitate to question my ideas, I learned to think more deeply—to look at opposing sides of issues. When I was young, I tended to be narrow-minded. But with maturity, I learned it’s important to consider the whole picture before deciding what’s correct and what isn’t. Even as a young child, my father had artistic talents. When I was ten years old, my grandmother gave me a watercolor my father painted when he was ten years old. I tried to copy it, but my paints ran together into one big, unattractive blob. I thought: Amazing. How is it that my father painted beautiful watercolors when he was ten years old, but all I can do is make a smeary mess? My daughter still has my father’s watercolor. But mine? It was dumped in the trash. My father had enough talent to pursue art as a profession. After he graduated from Chicago’s Academy of Art, his first job was to create vaudeville cartoons for the Chicago Tribune. Eventually, my father drew cartoons for the movies. He purchased half of Hal Roach’s studio, which meant we lived part-time in California. The studio was built on the talents of slapstick comedians such as Will Rogers, the Our Gang kids, Charley Chase, Harold Lloyd, and most famously, Laurel and Hardy. This, of course, was before talkies came into vogue. After talkies, interest in people such as Harold Lloyd sort of died down. 028

Original Our Gang Comedy Kids, Left to right: Hal Roach, Producer, Dad, Mother, Grandpa Angell, Grandma Angell, circa 1926

I can’t tell you much about Harold Lloyd, but I can tell you that when I was in the first grade, my sister and I attended school with his daughters, Peggy and Gloria, and they invited me to their home for a birthday party. What impressed me most was the cake and ice cream. They had an enormous chocolate birthday cake. Perched on the tiptop was a beautiful doll carriage. The baby doll’s head peeked out from beneath a blanket. The nanny pushed a carriage that was molded from ice cream and outfitted with candy handles. I was awe-struck. In my six-year-old opinion, this was the most marvelous thing I’d seen in my entire life. Everything else about the party escaped me. Well, when I arrived home, our governesses hardly let me float through the door before they cornered me. I was quizzed ruthlessly. “Tell us about the furniture. Tell us about the artwork. Tell

us about the people.” They went on and on. But all I could remember was the cake and ice cream. How could this be? They were disgusted. “Terrible” was the word of the day. I didn’t care. After all, I was a sixyear-old and had my priorities. This was about the time Walt Disney introduced Mickey Mouse to the world. Even though the Disney Studios were in competition with the Roach Studios, my father and Walt Disney developed a wonderful friendship. Actually, it was my father’s sketches that inspired the Disney characters Tinker Bell and the Three Little Pigs. Cartoons were popular, so there was enough work for everybody. My father planned to stay at the Roach studios for the rest of his career, but as often happens, life intervened. In about 1929 or 1930, Texaco had problems. A member of the Board of Directors paid a visit to my father and advised him to forget his cartooning business, move back East, and take care of the family’s interest in Texaco. I was too young to be part of my parents’ decision, but I was old enough to realize that they agonized over what they should do. They were torn between my father’s love of cartooning and his responsibility to protect the family’s fortune. Finally, they decided. My father gave up cartooning, and, at thirty years old, he became the youngest member of Texaco’s Board of Directors. I think this was one of the biggest regrets of my father’s life, but—in his characteristic manner—he made the best of it. His life was so full of other accomplishments that he didn’t dwell on his relinquished cartooning business. In reality, he didn’t give up his love of drawing— he simply channeled it in a different direction. When he explained a complex issue, he’d draw a picture of it. It amazes me how a picture can help clarify predicaments. The problem at Texaco revolved around a disagreement between two coalitions on Texaco’s Board of Directors. I don’t know the details, but apparently it was quite the dispute. My father told us he’d put one faction in a room on one side of the hall. He’d put the other faction in a room on the opposite side of the hall. Then he’d walk the corridor and make sure the disputers stayed put. After listening to both positions, it was up to my father to decide who was right and who was wrong. Along with being the newcomerturned-policeman, my father represented the most stock. Even though

this stock was from my mother’s side of the family, my father’s position was a powerful one—his word was law. Eventually, my father made his own investment in Texaco. When John Gates’s executors panicked over the price of oil—it was 10¢ a barrel—they sold large chunks of Texaco stock. My father borrowed money from a Chicago bank and bought several thousand shares with his own money. This act of faith in Texaco grew to make him a multimillionaire in his own right. But as with everything else in my parents’ lives, he and my mother shared the prosperity and used it to help others. My parents were role models. They walked their talk. I remember my father saying, “We feel having wealth gives us a great responsibility. We must help people help themselves.” And they did. This was a confusing time for me. I didn’t understand why we were leaving California. I was in the fourth grade. I liked my school and enjoyed doing girl-things with my friends. In my mind, there was absolutely no reason to return to St. Charles. To make things worse, my family left California before me. My parents made me board at my school for a couple of months. Then after the school year was over, my grandparents and I rode the train to St. Charles. Even though I fussed and fumed, I didn’t have a choice. My father was strict—my family marched to the beat of his drum. One drumbeat we heard loudly and repeatedly tapped out a cadence to the allowance rule: You only receive an allowance if you work for it. You only receive an allowance if… My father lectured over, and over, and over, “Nothing—and I mean nothing—will be handed to you.” As soon as we passed our tenth birthday, it was time to go to work. To sit back and do nothing simply wasn’t acceptable. My father insisted that we follow his plan and, “Earn your keep.” His plan for me was to baby sit. Every summer, I started my workday promptly at 8:30 AM and worked until noon. For my twenty-plus hours a week, I earned a grand total of one dollar. Do the math. Along with being a taskmaster, my father was definitely frugal. When I started high school, my plan changed. I was thrilled to learn that I no longer had to baby sit, but my celebration was short-lived. My new job was to work in my father’s office. Each weekday during the summertime, my father expected me to be at my desk by 8:30 AM—

sharp. I locked the office door at 6 PM—and not a minute sooner. On Saturday, I worked a half-day. My father did have an assistant, who we called “Uncle Bertie.” Uncle Bertie was sort of my father’s right-handman. On occasion, Uncle Bertie would say, “You go ahead and go home now. I’m staying late, so I’ll close up for you.” But usually, I worked about forty-five hours a week, and, for this, I got paid a grand total of six dollars. Not only was the pay miserable, my job was miserable. My father made me fill in for employees who were on vacation. I did bookkeeping, answered the phone, and paid bills. Actually, I did whatever he told me to do. None of the jobs appealed to me, but what I really dreaded was the secretarial work—my father’s secretarial work. I’d live in horror anticipating his secretary’s scheduled vacation. The secretarial duty I disliked most was typing. My father didn’t permit a single erasure on anything. And in case you’re too young to remember, back in my infamous secretarial days, documents were taptap-tapped out on a clunky, black typewriter, and each document was backed up with multiple carbon copies. Typing was a nightmare that chased me into my waking world. One morning, my father arrived at the office to find mounds and mounds of crumpled paper tossed behind my chair. Dad approached my desk and stopped. My heart flip-flopped. I knew I was in trouble for something. My father looked at the paper. He looked at me. He looked back at the paper. He looked back at me. His announcement was matterof-fact. “You’re being extremely wasteful. Because you’re throwing away so much paper, I’m going to dock your pay.” “But you won’t allow me to erase.” “Then you should be more skillful.” With that, he marched into his office and closed the door. I went back to discarding paper. Sure enough, on payday, my pay envelope was empty. Yes. My regular pay of six dollars a week was zero. And it wasn’t zero for just one week. My pay envelope was empty for several weeks. Talk about slave labor. But this was before the Fair Labor Board existed, so I had no recourse. Along with being frugal, my father was a disciplinarian. When I was in high school and dating, I had to be in the house by midnight.

This, however, caused a slight problem. If my date took me to a movie— especially if the movie theatre were in another town, and after the movie, we stopped to get something to eat—it took some real doing for him to get me home by twelve o’clock. But if I wanted to date—and I did—I had no choice but to abide by my father’s rules. I always made it home by curfew. Well, almost always. I’ll never forget the night my date and I ran up the sidewalk two minutes past midnight. My father was sitting on the front steps—waiting. I knew we were in big trouble and stuttered, “But we did our best to get here. But we did our best to…” My father cut me off. In his not-to-bedisputed opinion, my plea for mercy was weak. His look of disgust said it all. I knew without being told: Nothing— and I mean nothing—will absolve your two-minute-tardy-sin. The boy was scolded. “Bringing my daughter home two minutes late is simply not acceptable.” And that was that. The facts were the facts—Lavern Norris was off limits. My date knew he might as well erase my name from his little black book. Another evening, my brother Brud and I double-dated. We had a great time until we got in the car to go home. To our dismay, we discovered a flat tire. When we finally arrived home—of course, late—my father didn’t believe our story. I knew we didn’t lollygag, so again, I pleaded, “But we did our best to get here. But we did our best to…” To my father, but was the worst excuse in the world. He didn’t take kindly to but anything. We were expected to toe the line. Excuses were excuses. With that said, it’s important to tell you that my father wasn’t only about frugality and discipline. He had depth of character. You could trust my father. He was honest and did what he said he was going to do. He taught us to consider other people, to recognize their problems, to acknowledge their feelings, to figure out the best way to help. My father was inquisitive and had the uncanny ability to ask just the right questions—questions that got to the crux of what makes people tick. He had sort of a sixth sense about people and their problems. Simply by observing someone’s actions or overhearing a single word they said, my father could tell if they were down-and-out. But he was careful about the way he helped. My father allowed people to maintain their dignity.

My father had the remarkable ability to make the best of a bad situation. He didn’t dwell on problems. If he couldn’t change something, he’d go on to something else—he’d work around his problem another way. I can still hear my father say, “Do a good deed every day. Be happy.” He also had a great sense of humor. He loved jokes and loved to laugh. My father knew then what I know now—the world needs laughter. Dad was the king of practical jokes. Anyone—including and maybe especially his children—was a fair target for his pranks. He’d sneak around the house and short-sheet the beds. Then at bedtime, you’d hear victims’ screams all over the house. He’d laugh out loud, and we’d laugh with him. My siblings and I loved his enthusiasm, but I must tell you that at times, it drove my mother crazy. It wasn’t unusual for us to be entertaining a houseful of company when—out of nowhere—Dad decided we couldn’t survive another moment without a fried egg sandwich. Off he’d go to make fried egg sandwiches and a big mess in the kitchen. My father was born under the sign of Sagittarius, and although he didn’t make this widely known, he was somewhat of an astrology addict. One of his little quirks was to check out his horoscope in the newspaper every day. An even deeper secret—before Dad turned to the front page news, he’d read the comic strip Marmaduke. There’s no question about my father’s emotional availability. If I had a problem, he was right there for me—helping me in any way he could. During the years of World War II and the Depression, my father’s responsibilities at Texaco required him to travel a lot. Thursday evening at six o’clock, he’d get on the Twentieth Century—the train that left from Chicago—and arrive at Grand Central Station in New York City about nine o’clock Friday morning. He’d walk across the street to the Chrysler Building and have his meeting. Then he’d turn around and get back on the train in time to arrive in Chicago on Saturday morning. A few years later, when he was on the executive board, he’d be in New York for about half the week. Nonetheless, I knew I could depend on my father. Later in life, I learned that he felt the same way about me. One day—and this was when I was an adult—my father and I were talking. He said, “Lal, you’re a good girl. Even when you were young, I could depend on you. And you know what? Things haven’t changed.” This

acknowledgement was a long time coming, but it sure made me feel good. When World War II broke out, my father wanted to be part of the war efforts. After my brother Brud was drafted, Dad decided one Norris on the frontlines wasn’t enough. So he marched down to the recruiting station and announced, “I’m here to enlist.” He was rejected. The recruiter informed him that because he was over forty years old, he’d make a greater contribution to his country on the home front. In my father’s typical fashion, he didn’t dwell on the rejection. Instead, he came up with another idea—an idea that detailed how he would make a contribution to his country. My father knew that during wartime food was a problem. Time and time again, history proved that war meant food shortages. Although it was early in the war, already the U.S. government rationed foods such as sugar, butter, milk, cheese, eggs, coffee, meat, and canned goods. Labor and transportation shortages made it difficult to harvest and move fruits and vegetables to market. My father believed that our country should fight the war on two fronts—the combat front and the home front. He believed it was the home front’s responsibility to attack food problems that were inherent with war. His idea was simple—people at home should plant gardens. He called his vision “Victory Gardens.” My father started promoting Victory Gardens through the state representatives in Illinois, but he wasn’t satisfied to confine his mission to Illinois. He wanted it to grow to a national effort, so he took his idea to Washington DC. After he started promoting Victory Gardens through the Boy Scouts, the concept spread quickly. But his real coup came when he convinced his friend Walt Disney to arm Mickey Mouse with a green thumb. 024-025 Over twenty million Americans responded. Victory Gardens were planted in backyards, empty lots, and even on city rooftops. In the name of patriotism, neighbors pooled their resources, planted different kinds of foods, and formed cooperatives. Magazines such as the Saturday Evening Post and Life printed stories about the significance of Victory Gardens. Women’s magazines were full of how-tos: “How to Grow Giant Vegetables,” “How to Fight Garden Pests,” “How to Preserve Produce.” The idea was for families to preserve their own food and save

commercial canned goods for our troops. People were proud. It was a way to stay home yet do your part to support the war effort. The Norris family was no exception. One day, Dad gathered his troops—that would be my siblings and me—and announced, “Get ready. We’re going to plant a Victory Garden.” And Dad being Dad, the Norris platoon had no choice. We dutifully fell into line and saluted. “Yes, sir!” A gigantic portion of our large property was plowed up for our Victory Garden. Dad told us what to plant, how much to plant, and who was responsible for what garden duties. We did have a man who was hired to help, but my father made it clear: This was the Norris family garden. When all was plowed and planted, our family had a humongous garden with row after row of green beans, carrots, corn, and tomatoes. My goodness, I never saw so many tomatoes in my life. But the family garden wasn’t enough for Dad. My brothers, sister, and I were told, “You each must plant your own garden.” I had no hope. Being away at college didn’t allow me to wiggle out of my gardening responsibilities. My only redeeming—well, somewhat redeeming—thought was: At least it’s a smaller garden. Dad studied his tactical plan, checked off a box, and commanded, “Lala, plant your garden with green beans.” My protest, “But I don’t even like green beans,” was ignored. I turned soil. I dug holes. I planted. I watered. I fertilized. Then I waited. Finally, little seedlings popped up, and I must admit, I was excited. At this point, I encountered a slight problem. When I want out to weed, I pulled up all the plants, and discovered soon after it is impossible to harvest green beans from weeds. For the record, I want to tell you that I didn’t pull up the plants on purpose. I simply wasn’t much of a country girl. However, a missing green thumb was no excuse. Dad relegated me to other gardening chores. My father was insistent. “The Norris Victory Garden must be a model for other Victory Gardens.” Late one afternoon, my brother Bob charged into the house. He was obviously panicked. Bob yelled to me, “Dad’s on his way home. Come outside immediately!” I didn’t have time to ask, “Why?” Bob was out the door—racing toward the garden. I knew my father was expected home in just a couple of

hours but didn’t understand why Bob was in such a tailspin. Nonetheless, I followed him to the garden. He was working like a madman. Bob panted, “I was supposed to tie the tomato plants before Dad got home.” He didn’t have to say another word. I knew he was in real trouble and grabbed the string. Hundreds of tomato plants later, we looked at each other and let out a collective, “Whew!” Dad’s car had just turned into the driveway. Bob was also responsible for gathering eggs from the chicken house. He’d collect the eggs in a bucket. Then he’d swing the bucket over his head. Around and around it went—faster and faster. Being the bossy older sister, I’d scold, “Bob! Stop that right now.” He’d laugh and ignore me. Bob claimed, “If I go fast enough, my eggs will stay in the bucket.” Okay. This was true. However, I had no idea a normal egg was supposed to have a whole yolk. Our eggs scrambled in their shells. My family spent the long, hot World War II summers canning and freezing food from our garden. In the 1940s, freezing was a new concept. The only freezers you could get your hands on were the freezers that ice cream parlors discarded. But that didn’t stop Dad. Somehow, he managed to locate freezers for our family. We put them in the basement, and by the end of the summer, they were full. This was typical behavior for my father. When he had a vision—an idea—he pressed forward. My father wasn’t one to give up. He stuck to his ideas—worked them until he was satisfied that he’d explored every last option. In the early forties, my father was knighted by the Finnish government. This was in recognition of an effort he made in the early thirties to work with President Herbert Hoover to procure funds for Finnish relief. Because of their work together, my father got to know President Hoover fairly well. I’ll always remember the time my father met me at college, and we rode the Twentieth Century to Chicago. Just as we settled into our seats, my father turned to me and said, “Look. President and Mrs. Hoover are on our train.” My father invited former President and Mrs. Hoover to have dinner with us. It wasn’t any big deal. I felt as if we were having dinner with family friends. Mrs. Hoover was most charming and spent a great deal of time talking to me about normal, everyday things. I couldn’t help but

think: My. My. She’s such a gracious lady. I’m honored to have her spend so much time talking to me. After dinner, my bubble burst. My father reprimanded me. “You have nail polish on your fingernails.” “Well, yes I do.” “A girl your age shouldn’t be wearing fingernail polish.” I was incredulous. Mind you, I was in college. But back to the knighting. My father didn’t make much of it. Only his family knew he was knighted. In some countries, the knighthood passes down to the eldest male—forget the eldest female—but in Finland it doesn’t. It’s bestowed on one person and has no lineage. As far as I know, there wasn’t a ceremony. He received the honor, and that was that. My father’s reaction to his knighthood was like everything else in his life. He didn’t make a big deal of it. He quietly accepted his laurels and went about his business. Basically, my father was shy. The thing that made him so successful was his tremendous vision and exemplary initiative. In addition, he was an excellent listener. Most people want to do all the talking. But not my father. He had the unique ability to sit and listen to what other people had to say. My father knew how to ask vital questions that elicited information from people. People liked him and trusted him, so they were willing to open up and tell him anything and everything. He had a quiet charm, and almost without exception, he got what he wanted. There are many stories about my father getting what he wanted. But one is special. I’m still amazed by this story—amazed by how his initiative, persistence, and creativity provided him with an extraordinary experience. I’ll start from the beginning. My father and some of his friends from St. Charles decided to take a trip to Italy. Their little group consisted of one doctor and five businessmen. Except for my father, none of the men were interested in art. When they arrived in Florence, my father told his friends that he wanted to spend more time in the Uffizi Gallery, so the other men went their own ways. Well, my father got so interested in the art work, he lost track of time. When he finally looked at his watch, he ran out of the museum and rushed to the hotel to pick up his suitcase. But it wasn’t there. He didn’t have time to wonder. He hurried to the train depot.

But it was too late. Even in Italian, the announcement was clear: “The next train to Rome leaves in six hours.” My father had no choice. He sat down to wait. Finally, he arrived in Rome and found his way to the hotel. His friends were in the hotel’s sitting room having a drink and trying to keep cool. Those were the days before air conditioning provided relief from hot, muggy weather, so tempers were wired to a short fuse. My father was told abruptly, “We decided to teach you a lesson. You’re always late, so we took your suitcase.” Just where was the logic in that statement? Obviously, there was none. It was all circular reasoning, and my father was more than annoyed. He scratched his head and retorted, “Let me get this straight. You took my suitcase because I’m always late? You think spending a lot of time searching for a missing suitcase will teach me to be on time? How in the world does this make sense?” My father’s friends ignored his questions and plunged ahead. “Now, we’re going to teach you another lesson. We have an audience with the Pope. But you don’t.” My father didn’t miss a beat. “That doesn’t bother me one bit. I’ll get an audience with Mussolini.” He stormed off. The next day my father rode the bus to the Palazzo Venezia. This, of course, was where Mussolini stood on the balcony and made his infamous Il Duce speeches during the years before the war. My father didn’t know quite what he was going to do or say, but that didn’t stop him. When he arrived at the palazzo, the guards gave him what I always think of as a Nazi salute. But in this case, it was Italian. Anyway, no one said anything to him, so he kept walking until he got to a desk where a guard halted him. “Just what is your business here?” My father didn’t blink. “I’m an artist from the Chicago Tribune, and I would like to have an audience with Benito Mussolini and sketch his portrait.” Well, depending on how you look at it, this was the truth. My father had worked for the Chicago Tribune. Colonel McCormick had given him a lifetime press pass. The guard nodded and ushered my father to see Achille Starace— Mussolini’s loyal secretary. My father showed his press pass and repeated his story. Signore Starace said, “Fine. Go back to your hotel, and I’ll see what I can do.” Dutifully, my father returned to his hotel and waited.

I don’t remember the exact timing, but I do remember my father telling us about answering a knock on his hotel room door. The caller was a man who stood at attention. Ignoring my father’s respectful welcome, the man silently handed over an envelope covered with all sorts of seals. Then the man saluted, clicked his heels together, turned around, and stepped crisply down the hall. My father stared at his envelope. Of course, everything was written in Italian, so my father couldn’t read a single word. He clutched his envelope and ran downstairs to the concierge. Always polite, my father asked, “Will you please translate this for me?” The concierge took one look at the envelope and started shouting in Italian. Suddenly, life in the hotel lobby came to a screeching halt. People bowed to my father. They pressed against him. They grabbed his hands. My father did his best to shout above the din. “What is it? What is it?” But he was ignored. The scene was Italian chaos at its finest, and my father was the privileged—but confused—center of whatever the fuss was all about. Eventually, my father pieced together the news. He’d been awarded a fifteen minute audience with Mussolini. He thanked the concierge and proceeded to find his friends and announce, “Aha! I do have an audience with Mussolini.” But he couldn’t leave well enough alone. One of his friends was a doctor. “Uncle Doc,” as we called him, was a fuss-budget about germs. My father rather nonchalantly reminded Uncle Doc, “Don’t forget. When you’re kissing the Pope’s ring, it’s covered with germs.” We later found out that Uncle Doc kissed above the ring, but that’s another story. Back to my father’s audience with Mussolini. At the appointed time, my father appeared at the Palazzo Venezia and was ushered past the guard into its inner recesses. The height of the ceiling, the massive double doors, the polished marble floors left him awestruck. My father’s guide showed him into a large room. There was nothing in the room except Mussolini sitting at his huge desk, and a single chair—a chair obviously intended for my father. The guide left the room. Mussolini rose, shook my father’s hand, and indicated that he should be seated. Then he asked, “Do you speak Italian?” My father answered, “I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Do you speak German?” “I’m sorry. I understand some German, but I don’t speak it very well.” “Okay. I will try to speak to you in English. I have some paperwork to do. Do you mind if I do my paperwork?” “No. Please go ahead.” My father was starting to relax—to feel comfortable and actually thinking: Well. Well. Mussolini is rather charming. Suddenly, charm transformed to reality. A wall behind Mussolini’s desk slid open, and there stood two Black Shirts holding guns that were pointed directly at my father’s head. My father’s only thought was: That’s one very effective way of getting me to be careful. He gulped—to himself—and guardedly began sketching. After only a few pencil strokes, he realized that because of Mussolini’s position all he could see was the top of the dictator’s head. He completed one sketch and thought: This isn’t going to work. I can’t show this sketch to anybody. Now what am I going to do? He laid down his pencil and sketch pad and immediately placed his hands—in plain sight—on the arms of his chair. He didn’t want to take any chances. If the Black Shirts mistakenly thought he was reaching for a gun or a knife, his sketching days were over. Maintaining eye contact with the Black Shirts, my father picked up his chair and moved it to the side of Mussolini’s desk. Mussolini looked up—obviously questioning the move. My father smiled. “You have such a handsome profile. I want to sketch your profile.” And just think—this was before the time people realized that Mussolini was very proud of his profile. My father’s fifteen minute audience turned into an hour-and-a-half. As time passed, aides entered and left the room. It was obvious that they were discussing important matters of state, and although Mussolini engaged in the conversations, he didn’t change his pose. One aide was an American who started a conversation in German. My father couldn’t quite catch everything he said, but he didn’t have much time to figure it out. Mussolini glanced sideways at my father and quickly instructed his aide to speak in Italian. Later my father told us, “I’m not sure. I couldn’t catch everything, but when I thought about the conversation, I had the feeling he was

selling us out, or something like that. Whatever it was, Mussolini didn’t want me to hear what was going on.” The highlight of the story is, of course, my father did secure his audience with Benito Mussolini, and he did complete a portrait of the infamous dictator. I’m not sure he learned his lesson about being on time. But the Chicago Tribune didn’t care. The portrait was printed, and lots of papers were sold. 026 I have a feeling that I have a different opinion about my father than did my brothers or even my sister. But then, I think that’s true with children in any family. Maybe it depends on birth order. Maybe the first born always feels differently. Maybe a middle child or a youngest child always has a unique perspective. After all, each has a totally different relationship with his or her parents. I’m not sure, but I do believe that’s the way it was in my family. I can’t speak for my siblings, but for as long as I can remember, I felt close to my father. When I was a child, he took me on walks, and along the way, we’d discuss the animals we saw. It didn’t matter whether we spotted a chipmunk, or a frog, or a possum, he’d make up a story about the life of this little animal. He’d tell me about the animal’s family and about other creatures that were unkind to this poor animal and about the animal’s wonderful adventures. By the time we returned home, I’d heard this creature’s entire life story. Then my father and I sat together while he sketched the animal. This was a meaningful time in my life, and I’m sad to tell you that I don’t have a single one of these sketches. When I think back to my younger years, I remember that most of the time I spent with my father revolved around animals and nature. My father was a heartfelt nature-lover. He believed people should work together to improve the quality of their surroundings for themselves and other living creatures. He contributed money from the family’s fortune to found the Fox Valley Federation. My father observed dead foxes along the banks of the Fox River and concluded that their untimely deaths were caused by pollution. As always, he took action. The foundation was established to control pollution of rivers and conserve the beauty and natural resources of the environment. Now, mind you, this was way before the general public was aware of ecology. Once again, my father proved to be a visionary.

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Dadâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Portrait of Benito Mussolini as it appeared in the Chicago Tribune

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I can still hear my father say, “Do a good deed every day. Be happy.”

My father was interested in quality education, and my school accomplishments certainly didn’t escape his scrutiny. I must admit that I needed his help with math. But my father had difficulty simplifying things, which didn’t make my struggle with the abstractions of mathematics any easier. The truth is I seemed to have a mental block. He’d challenge me. I’d become annoyed. And off we’d go—around and around. Hardly a day went by that we didn’t get into a real wingding argument. And this—rightly so—drove my family crazy. When I was a junior at Northwestern University, I had a professor who was mistaken about the oil industry. I knew he was wrong, but I didn’t have the facts. So I called my father. He gathered the correct information, and I went back to class and challenged the professor. This didn’t make me popular in class. But I am my father’s daughter, and my father taught me to think—to seek the truth. One of my father’s favorite truth sermons preached ladylike behavior. I can still hear him. “You and your sister must always act like ladies.” Well, as I told you, my siblings and I knew if we were called into the library, it was for something serious. Usually it meant we were in trouble— probably big trouble. I remember one day my father summoned me to the library, and all I could think was: I don’t have any idea what could possibly be wrong. I’ve done everything right today. What is his problem? Of course, I kept my thoughts to myself but prepared for the worst. Dad had his speech ready. “Lala, there is a problem with your behavior on the tennis court.” We had a tennis court on our property. I loved the game and played whenever I wasn’t riding our horses. On this particular day, I’d played tennis with my brothers, a male cousin, and some of their male friends. The game was a round-robin—if you lost, you sat down. To my credit—I thought—I didn’t sit down once. My father had a different opinion. He scolded, “I was watching you on the tennis court today. I never saw such unladylike expositions.”

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I gulped, “What do you mean?” Dad didn’t hesitate. “You were out on the tennis court almost all day, and you beat every one of those fellows. That’s not ladylike.” I wasn’t sassy, but I couldn’t resist defending myself. “If they can beat me, they can win. But they have to beat me fair and square.” My father excused me from the library. We both knew I’d ignore his reprimand. My father influenced my life greatly. There are many things about him that I admire and respect. My father was a true Renaissance man—a quintessential visionary. He loved his family. He had integrity. My mother always said that my father could never tell a lie because the look on his face gave him away. My father did the right thing by people. I never once heard him say anything negative about anyone. Maybe he didn’t like what a person did, but he’d never say anything defamatory about that person. He also gave freely of his time. To him, taking time to help others feel happy was the heart of generosity. Actually, I think making people happy was his hobby. Not a day went by without my father saying, “That’s my Boy Scout duty for the day.” And for my father, those weren’t empty words. No matter how busy he was, my father didn’t delegate the small details of gift-giving to others. If he sent flowers, he’d go to the florist to make sure they were exactly right. He personally answered every letter he received. My father died of congestive heart deterioration. He was eighty years old, and his heart just gave out. Even though I was expecting his death, this was a difficult passage for me. He’d been ill for several weeks and was finally admitted to Miami Heart Institute in Miami Beach, where he had a pacemaker installed. We knew there was no hope, but of course we hoped. My father was in the hospital for over a month. During that time, I traveled back and forth from Naples to Miami, so I could be with him. And on occasion—when I didn’t like what I saw—I’d call my brother and sister to come and stay with him. On the evening of July 29, 1981, my father insisted that his private nurse go out and gather financial information about the stock market. He told her that he needed it for the next day. My father was perky, so thinking there was no big problem, she did as she was told. His nurse was horrified when I called and told her that my father died about 4:30 in the morning.

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The two cities he loved most in the world mourned and paid tribute to Lester J. Norris. The St. Charles municipal building was draped in black. Flags at the Collier County city hall, county courthouse, and the Big Cypress Nature Group flew at half-mast. On the day of his funeral, the weather mimicked our feelings. As my father’s body was eased into the hearse and the bell tower tolled a dirge, the light drizzle turned to heavy rain. The thirty car funeral procession wove its way to the family mausoleum in the Union Cemetery in St. Charles where my father was laid to rest next to my mother. With my father’s death, we were forced to acknowledge that this was the end of a unique era—actually, an extraordinary era that covered almost six decades of generosity. The Aurora, Illinois Beacon-News reporter Marie Doty captured a fitting acknowledgement to my father and mother when she wrote, “If one has the money, it is an easy thing to give, to build, to endow. But to give with grace—oh, that takes a special talent.”

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The Norris Family Fortune

carl thome

ÂŠ 2005 copyright

The Naples Pier, A community landmark and symbol of my parentsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; generosity

The Norris Family Fortune The Norris Way

ow you know my parents as individuals. You know a bit about their personalities and how they felt about their family. However, in order for you to understand fully the Norris family story, I want to tell you how they used the family’s money. Because they were such private, unpretentious people, it’s difficult—even for me, their daughter—to provide a complete description of their kind spirits and to explain how they used the family fortune to benefit others. However, I will tell you that in St. Charles, Illinois, and Naples, Florida, it’s almost impossible to look around without seeing something or someone who directly or indirectly benefited from my parents’ legacy of quiet generosity. They used the family money in such a way that it reached out and touched thousands upon thousands of lives, but for the most part, their generosity was a hush-hush generosity. My mother never talked about inheriting a fortune. It was as if the money were a felt whisper. It was there, yet it wasn’t. I don’t know who told her she was suddenly the eighteen-year-old heiress to the Texaco fortune. I don’t know what she did. I don’t know what she thought. I don’t know how she felt. I don’t know who—if anyone—she told. I don’t know who handled her money. I don’t know how her money was handled. She didn’t tell me, and I knew better than to ask. Mother was a private person. She avoided publicity. She refused recognition. She was close-mouthed about her generosity. If anyone had

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a problem, Mother did what she could to make life easier. But she was like the little elves who helped the poor shoemaker—no one knew it was she who performed the good deeds. That’s why it’s difficult for me to tell you everything Mother did to help people. After my parents were married, her money became their money and eventually, it became the family money. Nonetheless, there was no wiggle room in the unwritten rule: In the Norris family, we don’t talk about money. I don’t think my siblings and I were terribly stupid children, but as we were growing up, it never dawned on us that we had more money than anyone else. We simply thought of ourselves as the Norris children—not, the Texaco fortune Norris children. My mother and father shunned the limelight, and this value was passed on by example to us, their children. My siblings and I honestly never thought about the family money. Other people might say, “Oh, yes. It’s marvelous to have all that money.” But we just went about our business of daily living, of doing what kids do. As we became aware of the money, we learned that the most wonderful thing about having a fortune is being able to help other people. My dad said over and over again, “If you’re fortunate enough to have the money, it should be used to help people when they need to be helped. If you aren’t helping people, why have the money?” And my mother agreed. My first personal experience with actually demonstrating my parents’ beliefs about money occurred when I was about ten years old and decided to write and direct a play. I don’t remember the plot of what was certain to be a great play, but I do remember recruiting my brother Brud and his friends to be actors. My sister Joie wasn’t old enough to be an actress, but I didn’t want to leave her out, so I decided she could be a ballerina. With my cast selected and my brilliant idea percolating, I had every confidence that an audience would pay to see my masterpiece. My next step was to find a producer—a.k.a. “Mother.” When I told Mother about my idea, she was agreeable but wondered what I planned to do with my proceeds. I hadn’t thought that through. Mother had. She said, “Lala, if you earn money from your play, it must go to charity.” I said, “All right. That’s fine,” and proceeded with my plans. I worked diligently to write a script, find costumes, set the stage, and rehearse my cast. Finally, it was time for dress rehearsal. It was perfect. I could hardly wait for opening day. I sold tickets to an audience of friends

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In St. Charles, Illinois, and Naples, Florida, it’s almost impossible to look around without seeing something or someone who directly or indirectly benefited from my parents’ legacy of quiet generosity.

who eagerly watched the play begin. Somewhere early in the first scene, I realized my actors weren’t following my wonderful script. Unbeknown to me they’d decided to re-write my beautiful story into an unappealing tale about a battle. This was mutiny at its finest. Of course, the show couldn’t go on. The audience didn’t appreciate the squabble and got up to leave. Somehow, I managed to get everyone quieted down, but my problems weren’t over. They all wanted their money back. I had to think fast. Perhaps what happened next came from simply being around my parents. Perhaps it came from a budding desire to follow their example. I’m not sure. But I do know right then and there I ignored my audience’s hostility and gave my first talk about charities and the importance of charitable giving. I’m pleased to tell you that my audience listened, and the entire fifty cents I made from my great—but disrupted—play went to an orphanage. Goodness only knows how much Mother gave. The important lifelong lesson was this: Never do something, and then keep the money for yourself. That’s just not the Norris way. It’s also not the Norris way to sit back and do nothing. Instead, we believe it’s important to roll up your sleeves and get involved in charity work by volunteering your time. One of my earliest memories of volunteering my time is the charity work I did during the years of World War II. During my summer vacations, I worked at a home for underprivileged children that had been built between St. Charles and West Chicago. The location was selected so the city children could benefit from the fresh country air.

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The home was a year-round facility, but during the summertime it had an influx of children and a small staff. I started by volunteering from nine AM to four PM, but I ended up working from eight o’clock in the morning until whatever time the children were fed, bathed, and ready for bed. The long hours and hard work didn’t matter. What mattered was I was helping the children. At first, the children’s conditions bothered me. The majority had tuberculosis of the bone or heart problems, and, at that time, treatment options were limited. I especially remember one cute little fellow who had both legs amputated just above his knees. One night as I was putting him to bed, he asked me if he could say his prayers. Of course, he could say his prayers. I’m not sure what I expected, but when he prayed, “Pleeth, God. Pleeth give me two new skin legs,” I had trouble holding back my tears. The poor little fellow didn’t have a chance in the world for two new skin legs. He was fitted with artificial legs, but after that I don’t know what happened to him. I’d sit and wonder: Who is going to take care of this little guy’s legs as he grows? Not too many years after the war, the facility closed because it didn’t have enough volunteers. I’ve often wondered what happened to these children. Actually, what happens to other underprivileged children—other underprivileged adults—when they are down-and-out with no one to help? For me and my family, there was never a question about volunteering our time to help the less fortunate. It wasn’t something we thought about. Instead, we just automatically did it. I’m reminded of my friend Frances Pew Hayes, who laid down the law to a large audience. She said, “Get off your duff and volunteer!” In my opinion, that’s an apt directive. Besides my mother and father, I’d have to say that Frances Pew Hayes—Frannie—is the person I most admire in terms of philanthropic giving and volunteering. Frannie and I were raised in similar circumstances, so we could talk to each other—we understood each other. Frannie died a few years ago. I miss her friendship, and I miss the great fun we had together. Frannie was infamous for her heavy foot on the accelerator. I’ll always remember the afternoon we were flying down Immokalee Road on our way back from visiting the Guadalupe Center in Immokalee. Bea Harper and I were sitting in the backseat—holding on for dear life—

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when Bea looked at me and whispered, “Do you think we should get down on the floor?” Frannie had a wonderful sense of humor, but you always knew exactly where you stood with her. She told it as it is, and I like that. For many years, Frannie and her husband lived happily at Moorings Park. After he died, she moved to a lovely home at Quail Creek, but she never forgot her friends at Moorings Park. She returned time and time again to simply sit and talk with the people who still lived there. I admire Frannie for her thoughtfulness. She had a big heart and wasn’t afraid to let people know how much she cared. As I matured I developed a solid philosophy about charitable giving—a philosophy that started way back with my great play and the lessons I learned from my parents. First, I believe it’s important to recognize your interests. Maybe it’s hospitals. Maybe it’s immigration. Maybe it’s the homeless. Maybe it’s hospice. Maybe it’s the environment. Maybe it’s children. Remember this: Charities help every faction of life, so it’s important for a donor to support his or her specific interests. If you don’t focus your interests, you can give to so many things but probably not be as effective. I used to do this. I gave to everything that came along until I started thinking: Well, this is sort of silly. I have certain things that I’m particularly interested in, and I’d rather give more to a few. I’d rather make a real dent in specific charities than give small amounts to many. After you identify your specific interests, I suggest that you investigate the charities you are considering. Who runs the charity? What do they do with the money? What kind of people are they? Do they actually participate in the charity, or are they there in name only? Maybe you want to be on the board. But whatever you do, get your questions answered. Then follow up. Double-check to find out where the money is really going. I do this, and if I discover the money isn’t doing what I want it to do, I usually don’t give to that charity again. People in the United States are unusual because they are so generous to charities. I’ve seen a certain amount of giving in the other countries where I’ve lived, but not anything like the giving we have in this country. If U.S. citizens neglect charitable giving, many people will do without the basic necessities of life.

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I believe we need to keep the government out of it. I find that private giving is much, much more important than relying on the government. Remember this: Through charitable giving, you are able to benefit your community in ways that touch lots of people—you are able to touch the heart of what’s really important in life. But the government? Well, that’s another story. Admittedly and sadly, at times there are those who try to take advantage of my family’s money. Even though they didn’t talk about it, I think my parents worried that we might be kidnapped. The 1932 abduction and murder of the Lindbergh baby most likely made them even more aware of the vulnerability of their children. I don’t know exactly when, but I do know that my parents received a threatening letter. Years later, I found the letter and asked, “What in the world is this?” My mother said, “Oh, nothing, nothing. That was just some kook.” I have no idea if, then or at any time, we in eminent danger. My parents simply didn’t discuss the possibility. It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned how my parents helped people in St. Charles during the Depression. One day I was talking with a good friend who had grown up with my mother. She said, “Lal, did you know that because of your parents, St. Charles survived the Depression?” I didn’t. My friend went on to explain that during the Depression, my parents paid bills—bills that citizens couldn’t pay. They provided clothing— clothing that people couldn’t afford. They provided food—food that prevented starvation. They loaned money—money that kept businesses open. They deposited funds—funds that kept the bank in St. Charles open until Roosevelt closed the banks. They helped friends—friends who had no hope. And they did all this quietly and without notoriety. It was never a big deal. Instead, it was just something they did. After our conversation, I sat by myself and thought for a long time: This is most interesting. Even though I was old enough to remember Black Thursday, I don’t. Finally, I realized my parents shielded my siblings and me from the horrors of that day. Finally, I realized my parents shielded St. Charles from the horrors of the Depression. Finally, I realized what it

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means to leave a legacy of unpretentious generosity—a legacy of gracious giving. I’ve been told that I carry on this legacy. I hope I do. But like my parents, I don’t really think about it. Like my parents, it’s just something I do—something that comes naturally. My giving is just the way it is. Why? Because that’s the Norris way.

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Siblings

My Family at Home in St. Charles, Left to right: Dad, Lala, Joie, Johnny, Brud, Mother, Robbie, circa 1936

My Siblings Lester Junior, Joann Dellora, Robert Carroll, John Baker

hen I close my eyes and think back, I realize my very first memory is of my sister’s birth. I was only three and my brother Brud was two, but I recall my father taking us to the hospital, so we could meet our new sister. I stood on tiptoe and peered over the side of her bassinette. Having the family dog stand next to me, wag its tail, and lick my hand didn’t seem at all strange. Wherever we went, our pets went with us—even to hospital rooms. 029 Joann certainly wasn’t the only baby to join our family. There were five. I, the eldest, was born December 20, 1923. Then less than two years later—April 13, 1925—my brother Lester Junior, who we called “Brud,” was born. My sister, Joann Dellora, who was named after my mother, was born May 31, 1926. Robert Carroll, who was named after my grandfather, came along on April 10, 1929. And finally, our baby brother, John Baker, was born on August 11, 1934. We were a close family, and I have many fond memories of our life together. It’s difficult—actually impossible—to separate my siblings and me into neat categories. Our stories are homogenized. They blend. Then they glow with the warmth of what it means to be a family. I had great fun growing up in a family of five children. Actually, I can’t imagine growing up without my brothers and sister. I felt sorry for

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And Then There Were Three, Left to right: Me, Brud, Joie, circa 1927

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my friends who were only children. My siblings and I were tight-knit. No matter what we did, we enjoyed being together, but because Brud and I were so close in age, we were constant—special—companions. When I was three and Brud was two, my parents sent us to the same nursery school. I’ll always remember the morning Brud tumbled into a fishpond. I saw him fall and immediately started screaming…and screaming…and screaming. The teacher fished him out of the water and carried him inside to dry him off. And there I was—running right behind them. The teacher did her best to send me back to the playgroup, but, “No! No! No!” I insisted on guarding my brother. After all—as the big sister—it was my job to take care of him. Finally, the teacher got Brud calmed down. But not me. I continued screaming. I was frightened, and I knew it was my three-year-old responsibility to be absolutely certain that teacher was properly taking care of my brother. I screamed so much that Brud started crying—again. By this time, all the teachers were hovering; they were all frustrated. But, I didn’t care. I kept screaming, and Brud kept crying. Today, I sit and think: Oh! How dreadful. What a brat! But I wasn’t really a brat. I was protective—responsible. Nothing—and I mean nothing—was going to harm my little brother. The same was true for Johnny. I was ten-and-one-half when Johnny was born. Even though we had these so-called governesses, Mother took care of Johnny. However, it wasn’t unusual for her to turn him over to me. Many times I felt as if Johnny were my baby, and it didn’t take long for both of us to realize that he depended on me. If Johnny couldn’t find Mother, he’d come to me with his questions and his problems. He knew I’d move mountains to help him. Actually, that’s how we all felt about each other—it’s the Norris way. Years later, Mother shook her head and confessed, “You know, when I stop and think about what I did, I’m amazed. You were only ten-andone-half, but I let you take care of Johnny.” Then she’d stop and reflect.

It was great fun growing up in a family of five children.

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“But you were so responsible. I felt safer having him with you than with anyone else.” The tears in my eyes were tears of pride. When I look back, I realize how much my parents depended on me—how much they trusted me. If they gave me something to do, they knew I’d get the job done. However, on occasion, something or the other went wrong, and guess who was blamed? I’d think: Well, I’m doing my best to take care of the situation. One time when I was about nine and Bob was about five, I was assigned to watch him. To my horror, he fell down the stairs, landed on a rock, and got pretty banged up. I sobbed, “I just turned my back for a second and down he went.” Everyone except my mother blamed me. She shushed my accusers. “No! Lala didn’t do it on purpose.” Of course, this made me love Mother even more. 031 Our home was cozy. It was a place where we shared good times— where we felt loved, nurtured, and supported. To me, our home meant “family.” As our family grew, my parents decided to enlarge our house. After the renovation, the head-on view from the street wasn’t much different, but when you looked from the side, there was no question—our house was much larger. The house was never fancy. It was comfortable. My father designed the playhouse in our backyard to be a smaller version of our house. Our playhouse had six windows—two in the front, two in the back, and one on each side. The outside walls were constructed of wood shingles, and the roof was covered with dark, tar shingles. It was complete with a play oven, a stove, and a doll bed that belonged to my sister. Brud and I loved to play in our playhouse, but unlike Joie and Bob, we didn’t play house. Joie’s favorite game was dress-up, and somehow she managed to convince Bob to play along. She was Mrs. Norris. He was Mr. Norris. One of Joie’s many dolls was Baby Norris. The floor was swept. The windows sparkled. The little dishes were stored neatly. Unfortunately—for Joie—Brud and I had a different vision for our playhouse. For some reason I can’t possibly remember, we decided our playhouse wasn’t complete until we had stuffed animals. This was the era of taxidermy, and perhaps we thought the walls of our playhouse should replicate the walls of a real home—walls that were adorned with preserved deer heads, bear skins, massive elk, and birds in flight, each with “real” beady eyes and, when appropriate, bared yellow

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Our Family Home

teeth. Whatever our reasoning, our method of preservation caused a slight problem. To us, a dead robin—complete with decaying innards, feathers, and bird mites—was a perfect stuffed animal. The results were rather disastrous. Much to Joann’s dismay, her little house never won the Mr. Clean Award. My sister would tell you that I was bossy. I was the eldest, and in my mind, this gave me the unquestionable birthright of being in charge. Joie and I had totally different personalities. She was a girly-girl who loved to play house. I was an outdoors girl who loved to horseback ride. Fine. We went our separate ways until I wanted to go horseback riding.

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My parents didn’t allow me to ride by myself. So—being the boss—I insisted that Joie ride with me. Joie hated horseback riding. But I didn’t care how upset she became, how many fits she threw. I was in charge. I gave the orders. And that was that. Despite my self-appointed superiority, as we grew older, we were close and learned to respect each other. Even though we didn’t do much together, we did learn to appreciate each other’s likes and dislikes. My brothers and sister and I never tired of playing cops and robbers. I, of course, was the cop. I think that’s because I’d rather do the chasing than be chased. Or, perhaps, it had something to do with being the bossy eldest sister. Whatever the reason, I wore the badge. Off hand, I can’t think of specific things my siblings and I did to misbehave. When we argued, it was usually Joie and me fussing at our brothers to stay out of our room. They were rough-and-tumble, and their clatter annoyed us. However, the minor feud was soon forgotten, and we’d go about our family fun. After dinner, we loved to sit in the living room with the lights out. We’d huddle around the radio and listen to a show that was appropriately called “Lights Out”. Our imaginations went wild. We scared ourselves silly—especially when it came to The Hand. My brothers—especially Bob—knew exactly how to terrify me. At the slightest mention of The Hand, I’d cringe and break into a cold sweat. I was convinced—The Hand was out to get me. One night after the show, Mother tucked Joie and me into bed. I closed my eyes and hoped for sleep. Suddenly—Creak…Creak…Creak. My eyes flew open. From my bed, through the dim light, I watched the door. Slowly, it opened. My heart raced. I screamed. Bob had snuck silently up the stairs and rigged our door so only a hand clutching a rubber band was visible. At the sound of my scream, Bob grabbed his hand and zoomed off to his room. Mother came flying out of nowhere. “What in the world is your problem?” Sob…Sob…Sob. “It’s The Hand. The Hand is after me.” Sob…Sob… Sob. “Don’t be silly. Do you see a hand anywhere?” She stomped down the hall.

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I pulled the covers over my head. Sniffle…Sniffle…Sniffle. I tried to soothe my hurt feelings. To Mother’s credit, I heard, “Stop it! Don’t do that to Lala anymore.” Knowing Bob, I’m confident he just smirked and went to bed satisfied. My sister and I shared a bedroom. Every so often, Mother got the notion to change our room’s décor. She’d ask us what we preferred, and we’d pick something floral and cheerful. I must tell you, however, that sharing a room with my sister wasn’t always cheerful. When we were children, I refused to admit that I contributed to the problem. But I did. Being younger, Joie’s bedtime was earlier than my bedtime. But for reasons I never understood, I had to accompany her. I didn’t think this was fair and wasn’t especially quiet about keeping the humiliation to myself. Joie was clever—she knew how to get back at me. As soon as the lights were out and Mother was out of earshot, she’d whisper, “The Hand. The Hand is creeping closer, and closer, and closer to your bed.” That shut me up. Interestingly, we didn’t argue about who did and who didn’t keep our room neat. When we were younger, I was the neat-nick, and my sister was the mess-monster. Then we went away to school. When we came home, our tidy styles had flip-flopped. I don’t know what happened to Joie, but I didn’t have time to fiddle with keeping our room neat. Fortunately, it didn’t bother either of us. If I thought about it at all, I’d think: Oh well. It is what it is and go about my business. 030 Our property was very natural—very pretty. In the wintertime, friends came to our house, and we’d ice skate. Ducks and swans swam on the lakes, and deer, peacocks, and sheep roamed freely in the back fields. Unfortunately, in later years, the neighborhood changed and a busy street interrupted the serenity. But when I was a child, everything was green, green, green. The sheep and deer grazed on grass, but grass alone didn’t provide them with enough to eat. Once a day, my brothers traipsed out to the fields and dumped loads of additional food. All was well until they decided that their job would be easier if the sheep were moved to the deer park. The move went smoothly, but strangely enough, the deer started dying.

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We never figured out exactly what went wrong, but our theory was the deer and the sheep just didn’t get along with each other. The sheep were transported back to their own field and lived happily ever after. That is, until Mother intervened. The family’s idea to pasture sheep all started one Easter when my brother Johnny begged my parents for a lamb. Because I was sixteen and old enough to drive, Mother asked me to go to the stockyards in West Chicago and pick up one lamb. I said, “No problem. No problem,” and off I went. I found my one lamb and headed back to the car, but my lamb-mission was far from over. Each time I tried to leave, someone from the stockyards begged me to take just one more…just one more… just one more. About the same time I picked out stockyard lambs, Uncle Ed brought two ewes and their four lambs to our house. Uncle Ed’s sheep were a special breed. My stockyard lambs were simply lambs. But we didn’t care. We loved them all. As a matter of fact, because our lambs required constant feeding, we let them live in the breakfast room until they were mature enough to eat on their own. One little black sheep absolutely adored mother. What mother thought of him is another story. Whenever she’d leave him alone, we’d hear his funny, deep Baaaa… Baaaa …Baaaa… all over the house. Eventually, Mother had the lambs slaughtered. I thought it was rather cruel when one evening at dinner she commented to us, “I hope you enjoyed those lamb chops. That was the last of your lambs.” I could only choke and say, “Oh, no! Not my lambs.” We were so attached to our lambs that we actually named the first few. There was one short—very unpopular—stretch of time when Mother decided that Joie and I needed to develop domestic skills. She called us into the kitchen. “Girls, on the cook’s night off, I want you two to prepare dinner.” I opened my eyes wide. “Let me get this straight. You want us to prepare dinner?” “Yes. You’ll start next week.” Well, when “next week” arrived, Joie and I dutifully showed up in the kitchen. I don’t remember exactly what we prepared, but I do remember our family was rather horrified with the results. My brothers

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moaned and groaned and insisted they couldn’t possibly eat our food. Mother’s experiment lasted about a month. Years later, one of my brothers commented, “So Joie turned out to be a good cook. What happened to you?” He laughed as if his remark were made in jest. Never mind that it wasn’t. Never mind that he was right. Never mind that I didn’t care. As I mentioned, when my father was cartooning, we lived in both Illinois and California. In 1930 or 1931, when Bob was about oneand-one-half, we were in California when he developed an ear infection that led to a mastoid operation. At that time, a mastoid operation was a serious procedure. This was before antibiotics, so the procedure was risky and quite frankly, scary. My parents believed they’d done everything possible for Bob, but his recovery didn’t look good. The only thing left was to go home and pray. My mother, however, refused to leave the hospital. She pulled her chair up next to Bob’s bedside, took his hand, looked my dad in the eye, and stated, “I’m staying. I’ll do my praying next to my son.” Dad understood but knew he had to go home and check on the rest of the family. Well, he’d rented a green Chevy. On his way home, he stopped at the Brown Derby. I don’t know if he ate or had a drink, but that doesn’t matter. He finished in the restaurant, paid his bill, walked out to the parking lot, got in his green Chevy, turned the key, and drove home. A couple days later, he was pulled over by the police and accused of driving a stolen car. Dad said, “I don’t have a stolen car. I rented this car.” The officer disagreed. “No. No. No. This car is stolen.” They argued back and forth until finally Dad said, “Look. I’ll show you this is a rented car,” and opened the glove compartment. Much to his amazement, the rental car paperwork wasn’t there. Instead, he found a woman’s purse—a woman’s purse that didn’t belong to my mother. He was astounded. All he could say was, “I guess I don’t know where I got this car.” The officer asked, “Were you at the Brown Derby two nights ago?” Dad answered, “Yes I was.” Come to find out, other guests at the Brown Derby were also driving a rental car—a rental car that just happened to be a green Chevy,

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the exact duplicate of my father’s green Chevy. Well, when my dad got into his green Chevy, he didn’t look closely. He just put the key in the ignition and drove away. Don’t ask me how this worked, but the key fit, so he had no reason to even consider this wasn’t his rental car. The good news is my father didn’t go to jail for driving a stolen car and Bob survived the operation. In addition, the incident became an amusing family story—a family story that gets told and re-told. After all, what would families be without their stories? While it’s fun to share some family stories, others are difficult to talk about. The stories about my brothers’ deaths are two very, very difficult stories to tell. Their deaths were two real tragedies in my life. When Johnny was twenty-three years old, he was killed in a car accident. When Brud was forty-two, he dropped dead of a heart attack. First, I’ll tell you about Johnny. Johnny loved cars. He was attending a car show when a friend came to him and said, “Johnny, I don’t know what to do. I need to go away for a little bit, but I don’t want to leave my car alone.” Johnny said, “Don’t worry. I’ll be here working on my car. I’ll watch it for you.” His friend thanked him and went off about his business. Johnny worked until about two o’clock in the morning. When his friend returned, he cleaned up and headed home. The weather was cold, and by that time in the morning, the road, which had recently been re-asphalted, was icy. I’m not sure, but most likely Johnny was driving too fast. What I do know is the car skidded. His right rear wheel caught on the edge of the road, and the car whipped around. If he’d been only a few yards further ahead or a few yards further back, the accident wouldn’t have been so bad. But at this exact point, trees lined the side of the road. The car hit one tree, ricocheted off, and hit another tree. Johnny was thrown from the car, and his head was badly damaged. When my father’s cousin—the funeral director in West Chicago who also drove the ambulance—saw Johnny, he said, “This boy isn’t recognizable.” The ambulance took Johnny directly to the hospital where a day later the doctor hooked him up to a respirator that had been transported in from Chicago. This was in the 1950s when doctors were just starting to use respirators. Actually, there weren’t too many of them in the entire

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My Brother Johnny, circa 1935

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country. This machine was the biggest, most cumbersome-looking thing I’d ever seen. It made a horrible, loud noise that could be heard everywhere in the hospital. Even today—almost fifty-one years later— that Wheeeezzzz…Wheeeezzzz…Wheeeezzzz… still haunts me. Chuck, who was a doctor friend of Brud and Joie, happened to be at the hospital after the accident. The family had known Chuck for years and years. I was sitting alone in the room with Johnny when Chuck stopped by to see him. Chuck said, “Lal, I hope you aren’t praying for Johnny to live.” “Why are you saying that, Chuck?” I asked. “You don’t want him to live.” I was shocked. “Of course I want him to live. He’s my baby brother, and I love him dearly.” 032 “No you don’t. His brain is so badly damaged that if he lives, he’ll be blind, and even worse, he’ll be a vegetable. You know your brother. He wouldn’t want to live like that.” I could only gasp, “Oh, no. Not my brother Johnny.” Chuck was gentle but firm. “Yes. Your brother Johnny. That’s why I don’t want you to pray for him to live.” At first, I was furious. But after I thought about it, I was happy Chuck was honest with me. The accident happened on my birthday, in 1957. Johnny lived until Christmas Day. After time passed, I told my mother about the conversation I’d had with Chuck. As devastated as she was, she said, “I’m happy you told me.” Now, I’ll tell you about Brud. This was 1967, and by then I was married and living in Rome. It was important for me to stay in touch with my family, and back then about the only way to correspond was through letters. One afternoon, I sat down at my desk and started writing: Dear Brud, I am… Suddenly, I felt a rather large, invisible hand cover my hand. Then it literally lifted my hand up off the desk. The pen dropped to the floor. For a few moments, time stopped. After my heart stopped racing, I thought: This is very strange. Who’s holding my hand? I was a bit distracted, so I didn’t finish the letter. Instead, I got busy doing something else. That evening, George—my husband—came home early. Well, George didn’t come home early. I knew immediately

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something was wrong. His news was devastating. “Lal, I’m sorry to tell you that Brud had a heart attack and died.” When we stopped to figure out the timing, we realized his death occurred the same hour I was writing the letter. Untimely deaths are difficult. I believe families handle them differently. It’s circumstantial. Certain types of deaths are dealt with one way. Other types of deaths are dealt with another way. When my brothers died, my parents didn’t dwell on what happened. I can’t tell you whether or not they talked together about losing their sons. I do know they rarely discussed the deaths with the rest of the family. It seemed to me that they kept it all bottled up inside. I’ve often thought: It’s too bad they didn’t talk more openly about our loss. When someone close to me dies, I like to think they’re in a better place—they’re better off. Then time goes by. Then because they’re not with me anymore, I miss them. Then I feel selfish because I’m sad. It’s complicated. The best advice I have for you is this: Life goes on, so don’t dwell on the past. Look forward. Think of happy memories, and your heart will heal.

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Growing Up

Lavern Gertrude Norris, July 1923

My Childhood Almost Ideal

s much as I hate to admit it, my full name is Lavern Gertrude. I wish I could tell you that I like my name. I don’t. The truth is I never did. First of all, until that day in the cemetery when I saw my grandmother’s name in the family mausoleum, I couldn’t figure out where in the world Lavern came from. To make matters worse, in grammar school I knew boys named Lavern. I was indignant to think I had such a horrible name, and to top it all off, boys had the same name. Nowadays, apparently, that doesn’t matter. But back then it upset me. I’d sit and stew: Why didn’t my parents give me a nice name? Nancy is a nice name. Anne is a nice name. But Lavern? Finding out I was named Lavern after my grandmother sort of made me feel as if I should be a Junior. But that wouldn’t make my name a nice name. I don’t like Lester—my father’s name—any better than Lavern. And quite frankly, my brother who inherited the name didn’t like it either. I guess I can forgive my parents for giving me one horrible name, but they didn’t stop there. Gertrude came from another grandmother. My mother told me that they were convinced I was going to be a boy, so they didn’t give a single thought to a girl’s name. Apparently, naming me after my two grandmothers was the only way I was going to get a name. So, here I am—stuck with Lavern Gertrude.

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The Hospital, St. Charles, Illinois, 1923

Fortunately, when my siblings were young they couldn’t say “Lavern,” so they started calling me “Lala.” Later, Lala was shortened to Lal. But my brother Brud just couldn’t leave well enough alone. When he wanted to tease me, which was frequently, he called me “Gert” or “Gertie.” Brud knew this infuriated me, but, being a boy, he persisted. Even though I liked Lala better than Lavern, my schoolmates and teachers called me “Lavern.” The only good news is I never bet on winning the nice name contest.

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My birth date is December 20, 1923. I was born at eleven o’clock in the morning in the St. Charles City Hospital. St. Charles was such a small town, people referred to our only hospital as “The Hospital.” In this day and age, I don’t think anybody would want to be born in “The Hospital,” but in 1923, that was our only choice. I wasn’t the most beautiful baby in the world. I don’t remember anyone saying anything about my unfortunate looks, but when I examine my baby pictures, there’s no question—the features just weren’t there. 033

Dad, Mother, and Me, April 1923

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I know it seems strange today, but in the 1920s, a new mother stayed in the hospital for two weeks after her baby was born. Because I was born on December 20th, my parents and I celebrated my mother’s December 23rd birthday and our first family Christmas in “The Hospital.” Of course, I don’t remember anything about our celebration, but my parents never let me forget that I wasn’t very considerate. They’d tease me, “Why didn’t you pick a better date to arrive in this world?” At least no one forgot my birthday. 035 My eyes are green, and I had short, brownish hair as a child. It was cut in that silly style with bangs and kind of a bowl on the sides. Unlike my sister, who had stick-straight hair, mine had a slight curl. But that didn’t make me a beauty queen by any stretch of the imagination. I had a round, chubby face, and I was large for my age. There was nothing dainty or petite about me. And I certainly wasn’t graceful. As a matter of fact, I was clumsy and awkward. However, I was always smiling, and everyone who knew me would tell you that I was reliable and honest. They’d also tell you that I could be very stubborn. Their assessment was correct—on all counts. I have lots of happy childhood memories. Every holiday was wonderful. On Thanksgiving, my father’s side of the family got together, and I remember clearly the great fun we all had. The highlight of the day was seeing our second cousins, who we didn’t see very often. We celebrated Christmas with my mother’s side of the family. Again, the highlight of the day was the gathering of our extended family. 034 The simple day-to-day activities also bring back happy memories. My brothers, sister, and I had no problem finding our own fun. Even simple, routine activities, such as playing outside in the woods after school or building a fort and laughing each time it collapsed, were fun. We didn’t have television, so we did lots of reading. I rather fancied myself as a budding artist and wiled away many hours painting pictures. They were far from masterpieces, but I enjoyed my delusion and kept trying. My musical talents equaled my artistic talents—they didn’t exist. I took music lessons for about fourteen years. I loved playing the piano and worked very, very hard to develop my skills. Unfortunately—for me and anyone who was unlucky enough to hear me pounding away on the keyboard—the talent just wasn’t there. I guess the consolation is I

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wasn’t different than anyone else in my family. Music was important to us, but not a single one of us could sing. Even the tone-deaf cringed at the squawky Norris family rendition of “Happy Birthday.” I’ll tell you that we were terrible and leave the rest to your imagination. I don’t recall a sad childhood memory. Basically, I was happy. My grandparents were still alive, so, unlike my mother, I didn’t suffer from one family death after another. I loved my family dearly, but sometimes I needed to get away—to be alone. My cubbyhole in the attic was the perfect retreat. The problem was the attic wasn’t heated. In the dead of winter, it was too cold. In the summertime, it was too hot. Nonetheless, it was my escape. I’d gather my books and read the day away. Remember, back in the 1920s, people had radios, but televisions weren’t common until the 1950s, so reading was a favorite pastime. Even if we’d had a television, my cubbyhole library would have been my sanctuary. To this day, I prefer books over television. I do remember a frightening event that goes all the way back to when I was four years old and attended Pike’s Nursery School. My parents and many of their friends sent their children to this nursery school. When I stop to think about it, I remember that this school was far from acceptable. It was rather crude and not at all a nice place for children. Then I remember that this was way back in the twenties, and nursery schools then were very different from the nursery schools we know today. I certainly hope a school of this low a caliber wouldn’t be permitted in this day-and-age. Anyway, Pike’s Nursery School did exist, and I attended. One fateful day, John—one of my little friends, who was also four—did something. I don’t remember what he did, but whatever it was, one of the teachers was very angry with him. She grabbed him and shook him over and over and over. His head banged against the wall, but she didn’t stop. John sobbed and tried to get away. The teacher kept banging. It seemed the harder he cried, the harder she banged.

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The Only Girl at Pike’s Nursery School, I’m in the front row on the far right; My friend Johnny is the second boy from the left in the back row, circa 1927

I was terrified. Not knowing what to do, I started another one of my screaming tantrums. Just like when Brud fell into the fishpond, I screamed and screamed and screamed. The teacher shot me a warning glare. The only reason I stopped screaming was because I thought: If I don’t shut up, the same thing will happen to me. As soon as I got home, I ran to my mother and panted, “Mother, you can’t imagine what happened today.” I have no idea if she told John’s parents. Everyone probably thought John was naughty and deserved his punishment. When John was older, he had trouble in school. His brother and sister were brilliant. His parents were brilliant. But John had difficulties. I can’t help but think his problems were caused by the horrible treatment he received in nursery school. To this day, I vividly remember what happened to my friend John. Maybe that’s why I’m so interested in childcare. 036 I loved our horses. Actually, I loved all animals. My father’s admonition was clear: “You want the horses? You take care of them.”

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Well, this wasn’t a chore for me. I pampered them. I fussed over them. I spoiled them. In the summertime—morning and afternoon—I’d ride my bike three miles to the barn and three miles back home. It was my responsibility to feed, exercise, and groom our horses. Even shoveling out the barn didn’t bother me in the least. The circus of 1928 is an event I’ll never forget. I remember watching wide-eyed as the leotard clad acrobats tip-toed across the high wire and swung from the trapezes. I ate peanuts and marveled at the elephants. The lions roared. The clowns squirted water on the crowd. Then it was time for the horse show. My parents sat watching the ponies, and before I knew what was happening, they bought one. Well, let me tell you, the ride home was, shall I say, “unusual”? My dad drove. I rode beside him in the front seat. That was normal. However, my mother sitting with Half-pint—our new pony—splayed next to her in the back seat was anything but normal. We got more than our fair share of strange looks. I don’t remember shoveling Half-pint’s poop out of the car, but then he was probably so confused he forgot that a normal horse was supposed to poop. I know I was confused. One afternoon when Johnny was about four years old, he begged my mother, “Please. Please. Please. Let me go horseback riding with Lala.” I’m not sure why she agreed. But she did. We headed to the barn. I boosted Johnny up onto the horse and secured him in the front of my Western saddle. I was a good rider and had ridden this particular horse many, many times. I knew the horse had a tendency to buck, so I usually kept him on a tight reign. I’m not sure why but on this particular day I let the rein slide a little. As soon as the horse felt a bit of freedom, he bucked. Intuitively, I clutched Johnny. I can still see the astounded look on his little face and his big eyes staring at me. Johnny’s unspoken question was clear: Well, what was that all about? I held on to Johnny for dear life, and we continued our ride. Basically, I was a good girl. I didn’t look for trouble. I don’t remember ever telling a lie. Like my father, if I even thought about lying, my face was a dead giveaway. It’s a good thing I didn’t want to play poker. I wasn’t then—and I’m not now—secretive. I’m open with almost everything.

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My childhood was wonderful. Actually, it was almost ideal.

I had two best childhood friends. One was Jeanne. The other was Eldora. Our parents were forever friends, so we knew each other from the time we were little girls, and we grew up together. We were good girls. I can’t remember a single time that we caused trouble. When I went to Jeanne’s house, she insisted that we play with dolls. This never appealed to me, but I agreed to go along with her “I’m-the-Mother” games. One of the most comical days in my young life was the day Jeanne convinced me to cut my doll’s hair. “Come on, Lala. Cut it off. I promise it will grow faster.” I went home with a bald doll. Eldora and I were more creative. We loved to sew and to dance. Eldora was a wonderful tap dancer. I’d watch her and think: Oh. She can tap dance so well. Maybe I can learn to dance like Eldora. I practiced and practiced, but I wasn’t cut out to be a tap dancer. One afternoon we put on a program, and everyone “ooohed” and “aaahed” over Eldora’s grace and beauty. But me? Well, I did my best. But I didn’t hear a single person call me “graceful” or “beautiful.” I’ll always remember my father’s you-must-save-your-money rule. He’d insist, “You must save half of your allowance.” Now, mind you, my allowance wasn’t very big to start with. Nonetheless, each week, a nickel of the whole dime I received was deposited into my bank account. And you can rest assured—my father checked up on me. I’d set aside my nickel, find my bankbook, enter the bank my parents owned, and faithfully deposit my nickel. I know it’s difficult to understand how I made a bank deposit of a single nickel, but in those days, it wasn’t all that unusual to deposit five cents. I was allowed to spend the other half of my allowance. Back then, I could buy a lot of stuff with a nickel. On Saturday afternoons, my siblings and I enjoyed movies at the Arcada theatre. Because my parents owned the theatre, we didn’t buy a ticket. When I stop to think about it, maybe that’s why our allowance was only a dime. I don’t remember popcorn. Nor do I remember

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receiving special treatment from the theatre’s employees. They knew us and expected that we and our invited friends would walk in for free. It wasn’t a big deal—just something we did. Quite frankly, I never gave it a thought. The Arcada—the Spanish word for “arcade”—was stunning. My father worked closely with architect Elmer F. Behrens—the same architect who designed theatres in Tivoli and Chicago—to create this one-of-akind theatre. Its Venetian-Spanish theme was influenced by my father’s travels to Miami where he studied Spanish architecture. The Arcada was built with tan colored bricks and trimmed with terra-cotta. The interior walls had little niches that gave it an exotic atmosphere. Its one thousand seat auditorium had leather seats on the main floor and wicker lounge chairs with deep cushions in the first row of the balcony. All that was wonderful, but the organ was absolutely amazing. Because of its importance in the performance, the organ was the theatre’s centerpiece. My father purchased it from New York at a price of $25,000. In the 1920s, that was a lot of money, but, as always, he wanted to help others enjoy life. At the time, the organ at the Arcada was the finest theatre organ in the country. I wasn’t particularly a toy-person. I owned a huge teddy bear and other stuffed animals, but they really didn’t interest me. Joann loved dolls. But not me. My many dolls simply didn’t appeal to me. We had a huge dollhouse full of furniture that was set up in our basement. I suppose early in its life, it was beautiful, but we painted it several times, and the many layers of rather drippy paint did nothing to enhance its aesthetic appeal. I more or less enjoyed our dollhouse and sort of remember playing the mother and one of my brothers playing the father and moving the tiny baby dolls from room to room. It was fun but nothing great. What I did enjoy was playing school. We had a big blackboard in our basement. It was a perfect place for me to show off my Miss KnowIt-All talents as a teacher—and as you might guess, I was always the teacher. I’d like to tell you that I was the teacher because I was the eldest and smartest, but most likely it’s because I was bossy and wanted to be in charge. With that said, discipline in my classroom wasn’t the greatest. My brothers and sister refused to mind. I did my best to teach them. But no. They ignored my brilliant lessons.

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My siblings and I played lots of baseball, and I was good on the baseball field. My parents, however, failed to see my future glory—or more likely, gloom—as a baseball star. When I was only seven years old, they discovered I could hit a golf ball as far as my mother and unilaterally decided that I should take golf lessons. They were excited. I wasn’t. I didn’t like golf and faithfully did my best to avoid practicing. When I was about ten, I was diagnosed with rheumatic fever. I was home—more in bed than out of bed—for the better part of a year. During the entire time, my fevers raged, and I was a very sick little girl. In the early 1930s, doctors didn’t know much about rheumatic fever. Late one night, I had an especially high fever, so my parents called the local doctor, and he came to our house. Yes, in those days, doctors made house calls. He examined me and apologized to my parents. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know how to treat your daughter.” My parents then called a pediatrician in Chicago who also came to our house. I vaguely remember the doctors being there. I vaguely remember being poked and prodded. I vaguely remember my parents hovering over my bed. I vaguely remember everyone talking about me. But I was so sick—I hurt so badly—I just wanted to be left alone. My condition was probably as hard, if not harder, on my mother than it was on me. Even though there didn’t seem to be a medical answer, she didn’t give up. Mother stayed right beside me doing her best to make sure I was as comfortable as possible. She was there for one reason and one reason only—because she loved me. After I rallied a bit, my parents decided that I’d recover more quickly in hot weather than in cold weather, so they sent me to Florida to live with my grandparents. In Florida, I went to a tutoring type of school where I brought my textbooks, and the teachers helped me keep up with my regular class. The problem was each time anyone took my temperature, it was high. So they’d send me home. The rheumatic fever did set me back a bit. I remember thinking: I sure hope I’ll be healthy when I grow up. Fortunately, my heart wasn’t damaged, but my joints and my legs were certainly affected. The year I was in the sixth grade, I was assigned to a very strict teacher. When she called on us to recite or to answer a question, she insisted that we get up from our desks and, “Stand up straight!” Well, when I stood, the pain in my legs was unbearable.

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I’d sit and pray silently: Please don’t let her call on me. Please don’t let her call on me. Please don’t… But she did. This teacher was fully aware of my discomfort, but she didn’t care. I remember the humiliation of standing next to my desk and crying. My classmates didn’t know what was wrong with me, and their raised eyebrows left no doubt in my mind: She’s weird. As a self-conscious pre-teen, who felt like a total fool, I was the poster child for “miserable.” Gradually, I got better and had a fairly full recovery. Off and on, I’d get terrible headaches and have trouble with my sinuses. I’m not sure the sinus problems were related to the rheumatic fever, but my troubles all started about the same time. My parents took me into Chicago to have my sinuses cleared—a treatment that continued for what seemed to be forever—but after they got cleared up, I had no further problems. Adults often feel an unexplainable urge to ask children, “So what do you want to be when you grow up?” I went through a period when I didn’t hesitate. “I want to be a farmer.” “A farmer? That’s nice, honey.” I couldn’t understand the frowns and furrowed foreheads. My answer was logical. I loved animals and envisioned a farm with lots of animals. I didn’t want cows—getting up at four AM to milk didn’t interest me. But horses? Horses were appealing. I loved taking care of horses. I dreamed: My farm will have lots of horses and dogs and cats. There will be acres and acres of property, but not many people—just animals. Over time, reality kicked in. Once I heard about a farmer’s hard life—a life without many vacations, a life without much fun—farming lost its attraction. I lived in an area with plenty of farmers and respected them, but I decided farming wasn’t in my future. After all, who’d cook for the farmhands? Certainly not me. They’d starve. What I really wanted to be when I grew up was a happy person. I wanted to grow up, have a good life, and be happy. And I did. There’s no question in my mind. My happy life began with my childhood. My parents were devoted to me and my siblings. There was never any doubt about their priorities. Their children were number one. My parents loved us, nurtured us, molded us. And we, in turn, adored them. I’m very fortunate. My childhood was wonderful. Actually, it was almost ideal.

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Teen Years Nothing Remarkable I don’t remember anything special—anything remarkable—about becoming a teenager. My brothers insisted I was bossier, and, to tell you the truth, they were probably correct. My parents celebrated my thirteenth birthday with a big party. To mark the occasion, they gave me a beautiful star sapphire ring. I treasured that ring. When my daughter turned thirteen, I presented her with the ring. She loved it too. Some teenagers are beautiful. Not me. First of all, I was too heavy. I’d like to tell you that with physical maturity, I became more graceful. I didn’t. I look at my pictures and think: My. My. Obviously, looks weren’t that important to me. My hair was rather long. I didn’t even bother to pull it back in a ponytail. It just sort of hung down my back. In junior high school, the girls were required to take home economics—not that it improved my cooking—and I remember looking at pictures of CocaCola ads hanging in the home ec room. They featured beautiful, smiling girls with perfect skin. I’d break my eggs and pout to myself: My skin certainly doesn’t look like that. When my children look at my old pictures, they laugh about what they call my “old-fashioned clothes.” To school, I wore skirts and sweaters and saddle shoes with little white ankle socks. One school picture shows me in a rather miserable looking pair of slacks, but I think that’s because I was going on a picnic. Slacks weren’t the usual school dress. For horseback riding, I wore a pair of blue jeans. In the 1930s, blue jeans were blue jeans. Unlike the high-priced, fashion-statement jeans of today, my blue jeans were the same blue jeans the farmers wore. I bought them at the hardware store. They only came in men’s sizes, so by the time a woman got them zipped up and buckled on a belt, she looked like a scarecrow with a rope tied around her middle. If that weren’t enough, they were so stiff they had to be washed and washed and washed before they softened up—even a little. I must tell you that the old-fashioned blue jeans were uncomfortable. But we wore them. I don’t remember many slang expressions. If I saw something I really liked, I’d say, “Oh, that’s the cat’s pajamas.” When my children

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were young, and they heard my “cat’s pajamas” line, they’d laugh at me of course. In my family we weren’t permitted to use much slang, and we certainly weren’t permitted to swear. One time—and one time only—I said, “Damn,” something or other. My mother washed my mouth out with soap, and that ended my experiment with swearing. My school wasn’t very large, so everybody knew everybody else. I had quite a few best friends who were girls I’d known my entire life. There were small groups of kids who were close, but there wasn’t really an “in” group. At least, that’s the way I thought of it. It seemed to me that we mixed up quite a bit. As I told you earlier, when I was in seventh—maybe eighth—grade, I decided to run for class president. I’m not sure why, but all of a sudden I thought I could run against two fellows and win. It was probably because I’d grown up with these two boys. I knew them well and had no doubt that I was every bit as capable, talented, and, certainly, smart as they were. If they could be class president, I could be a better class president. I tried, but I didn’t win. The boys were better organized. During my campaign, I had to give quite a few speeches. In those days, speech making didn’t bother me. It wasn’t until later in life that I didn’t want to speak publicly. Back then I didn’t hesitate to get up in front of a crowd and talk about what I thought was the right thing to do. I don’t remember much about what I said, but I probably talked about honesty. I do remember that even though I was competitive, it didn’t bother me when one of the boys beat me. I just thought: Well, he won fair and square. And winning fair and square has always been just fine with me. I was stubborn. I suppose, at times, my parents thought: What a difficult child. But I don’t remember any real conflicts, any real contention between my parents and me. I don’t remember doing anything that caused my parents to be angry with me. They liked my friends. I wasn’t wild or outlandish. I didn’t start trouble in school. I didn’t like the taste of liquor, so I didn’t drink. I knew what was wrong. I knew what was right—and it was right for children and teenagers to respect their parents. If my parents told me to do something, I did it. I didn’t rebel. I stayed within their limits. I told them where I was going. I told them who I was going to be with. I came in when I was supposed to come in. All in all, I was an easy teenager.

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For entertainment, there wasn’t much to do except go to a movie and then stop and have a soda or something to eat afterwards. My parents didn’t permit me to go very far away from St. Charles. There were three towns along the Fox River, and, on a special occasion, I might be allowed to go as far as Elgin, which was ten miles away. But usually they expected me to stay in town. What I remember most about movies is going on Saturday afternoons. The movies were usually serials, so if I wanted to find out what happened, I’d have to go back week after week. It wasn’t great seeing some guy about to fall off a cliff and have to wait an entire week to find out whether or not he was saved. But that’s the way it was. On Friday nights after basketball games, the public school held dances. I wasn’t the best dancer on the floor, but I danced a lot. I didn’t care. The boys weren’t that great either. Often families held barn parties where we’d drink punch and square dance. Religion was important to me, but I wasn’t religious to the extent that I went to church every Sunday. I learned more about being kind to people and doing the right thing from my parents than I did in church. How I behaved was more important to me than attending church regularly. So, as I told you, my life as a teenager was rather unremarkable. Nonetheless, it was a good life.

Winning fair and square has always been just fine with me.

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Family Christmas The True Meaning of Christmas My mother loved Christmas. She wanted Christmastime to be happy and special for our family. And it was. Mother’s favorite holiday activity was trimming the Christmas tree. Our tree was a very large tree that stood majestically in a place of honor in the living room. Of course, we all wanted our tree to be beautiful. Mother was very fussy about the icicles. They couldn’t be tossed, haphazardly, on the tree. They had to be precisely and perfectly placed. I, of course, was a good girl. I, of course, did as I was instructed. My brothers, however, didn’t quite get it. Year after year, they grabbed big handfuls of icicles and flung them, randomly, at the tree. Year after year, Mother scolded them, made them remove the clumps, and showed them how to carefully set each icicle back on the tree—one strand at a time. This was part of our tradition, part of our fun, part of what it meant to grow up in a family. To Mother, having tree lights all the same color was the thing to do. One year, our lights were green. The next year, our lights were blue. The next year, our lights were red. The next year, our lights were yellow. But our lights were never green, blue, red, and yellow. Eventually, my father and I had enough. We were tired of same-colored lights. About two days before Christmas, Dad and I drove into Chicago to do our Christmas shopping. On our way, we passed a gas station where I spotted a gorgeous tree with multi-colored and couldn’t help but exclaim, “Dad. Look at that tree. That’s a beautiful tree. It’s much prettier than the one we have.” Dad turned his head, took a quick look, and agreed. “It certainly is. Isn’t it?” On our way back to St. Charles, we stopped and bought this beautiful tree. When we arrived home with our treasure, Mother looked at us in sheer horror. “Well. Well. If you want that tree instead of the one I created, you’re going to have to decorate it by yourselves.” She turned on her heel and stomped away.

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Dad and I just looked at each other. Silence. Finally, I offered, “We do want multi-colored lights, don’t we?” Dad nodded. Rather bravely, we disassembled Mother’s tree. Our tree was so big we had to recruit help to get it up, but once it was decorated in its Christmas-best, we had our multi-colored lights and a beautiful tree. Each year after, Mother honored our not-so-subtle suggestion. Every Christmas Eve, the family gathered in the living room. We’d sit on the floor around the tree waiting. Everyone knew what to expect. It was time for Charles Dickens’s A Christmas Carol—Dad’s Christmas ritual. We watched as he positioned his black “78” on the Victrola and fussed with the knobs. Slowly, the arm rose from its nesting place and glided to the record. For a few seconds we heard only Scratch…Scratch … Scratch. Then, almost magically, the needle caught the disc’s grooves, and Lionel Barrymore’s rich voice filled the room. During the golden age of radio, Lionel Barrymore’s performance as Scrooge was as traditional as reading the book itself. Dad treasured his recording.

Family. That’s the true meaning of Christmas.

Even though we weren’t thrilled with Dad’s tradition, no one complained. From Scrooge’s first, “Bah! Humbug!” to the Ghost of Christmas Present, to the Ghost of Christmas Past, to the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come, to the old miser’s overnight transformation, we listened to every word. The tale was important to Dad, so it was important to us. Actually, Scrooge’s final generous act—his anonymous gift of the biggest turkey in the butcher shop to the Cratchit family—is exactly like my parents’ spirit of quiet giving. After Tiny Tim said, “God bless us, every one!” we each opened one package. Then it was up the stairs to bed. On Christmas morning, we opened the rest of our presents. The house was full of electric excitement. Actually, can you say, “Chaos”? Remember, we were a family of five little

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kids. First, we had to wait until everybody got up. We’d trickle down the stairs one at a time. Some ate breakfast. Some didn’t. Being the boss, I’d try to round everybody up and steer them to the same place at the same time, but this took some doing. Finally—mission accomplished—we’d sit around the tree, and Mother handed out packages. We were supposed take turns, but the watching and waiting lasted about sixty seconds— maybe. Mother’s admonition, “Be patient!” got lost in the bedlam of rip-and-tear. When we were kids, Mother filled our stockings with fun— sometimes funny—little gifts. As we got older, she often tucked a ring or a watch or a special piece of jewelry into the toes of our stockings. We spent our allowances on presents for our parents. I shudder to remember some of the rather hideous choices, but they were what our nickel-aweek spending allowance bought. And as Mother always said, “It’s the thought that counts.” Lucky for her this wasn’t just a cliché. Every year, Dad received a necktie and lots of handkerchiefs from his children. He’d wear his necktie on Christmas Day, but—rightly so— we never saw it after that. I’d hunt and hunt for some little gift I thought Mother would like. Bless her heart, she was touched—for the moment. One year, I was rummaging through what I thought was a linen closet. I opened a drawer, and to my amazement, hidden under the towels were all Mother’s Christmas gifts. She told me it was her “treasure drawer.” What could I do but laugh? After the presents were opened and admired, we’d change out of our pajamas and get cleaned up and ready for the rest of the day. Sometimes we went to church, but it wasn’t an engrained Norris family tradition. In the afternoon, family arrived and we enjoyed a big, traditional turkey dinner complete with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, and all the trimmings. Dessert was a special treat. We looked forward to the plum pudding with two kinds of hard sauce—one with brandy and one without. For my brothers, there was ice cream. At the end of the day, I was full, content, and sleepy. I’d snuggle in my bed, and in that twilight-land between wake and sleep the true meaning of Christmas came to me. Christmas wasn’t about gifts. Yes. Little gifts, big gifts, and even silly gifts added to the enjoyment of the day. But when the last ribbon was untied, when the last box was

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unwrapped, what really mattered was family. Family fun. Family love. Family joy. Family. That’s the true meaning of Christmas. I especially remember the Christmas season of 1941. This was the Christmas before Brud left for World War II and was probably the most meaningful Christmas in my entire life. On Christmas Day, we celebrated with close family. On New Year’s Eve, my mother and father allowed us to invite friends to a party. I’m sure they had a feeling—a tragic premonition about the future. My sister’s friends, my brothers’ friends, my friends joined together for a big party that lasted almost all night. It was a wonderful party. We had lots of snow that year, and it was cold. People bundled up and went outdoors to ice skate, toboggan, and play in the snow. Everyone had a wonderful time simply being together. Although we laughed and didn’t talk about our future, we collectively wondered: Will this be the last time we see some of our friends? Unfortunately, our question was answered in the affirmative.

Family Travel The Good Norris Children During the years my siblings and I were growing up, we traveled a lot. One place we especially enjoyed was Sun Valley, California. It seems strange, but at the time Sun Valley wasn’t anything but desert. I remember riding horseback down the middle of the main street in town. My family usually headed to Grandpa and Grandma Angell’s home in Wisconsin for vacations. Imagine poor Grandpa invaded by five busy Norris children. Surprisingly, he didn’t complain. He actually seemed to enjoy our buzz. Grandpa, Dad, and the boys loved to fish. I refused to waste my time fishing, so I did something fun—I caught frogs. With Grandpa’s encouragement, I’d search out huge bull frogs and secure them in a little container. I was proud of my frogs but annoyed with the problem they created. Each morning when I’d peep into my container to see how my frogs were doing, they’d be missing. I was puzzled,

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frustrated, exasperated. It took many years of lost frogs before I figured it out—Grandpa loved fried frog legs. In 1931—just before my ninth birthday—my family rode the train from Miami to Key West. Then we boarded a ferryboat to Havana, and from there we sailed on the luxury liner SS President Coolidge through the Panama Canal to San Francisco. I don’t remember much about Havana or San Francisco. But I do remember what happened on the ship. The voyage seemed to last forever. And to make matters worse, Mother insisted that Brud, Joann, and I should attend a morning playgroup for children. Well, Brud and I disagreed. We thought we were much too old to be in this group, so we’d bide our time, climb over the fence, and leave. Our challenge was to get away before Joie noticed what we were up to and tattle, “There they go again!” There was nothing weak about her vocal cords or her conscience. She loved to tell on us. But to our credit, we had a system. Almost without fail, we’d escape and run around the ship—unsupervised. Playing childish games in that kindergarten-for-babies wasn’t for us. We had big-kid stuff, important stuff, to do. After we went through the Panama Canal, the seas turned rough. Brud and I were very seasick, but for some reason, Joie was just fine— even energetic. One morning, my mother put Brud and me to bed and warned, “Now stay put.” Not even our own mother wanted to be around us. Unfortunately for us and Joie, she was stuck in our stateroom. Brud and I held our heads and did our best not to throw up. We wanted to die in silence. But Joie had absolutely no sympathy for our misery. She was perky and seemingly out to win the Most Obnoxious Child of the Year Award. Joie talked and talked and talked. Finally, Brud looked at me and whispered, “I think I will kill her.” Before we got on the ship, my father bought me a toy lion. He was a wonderful lion—about sixteen inches long and very tall. He looked exactly like a real lion. The most marvelous thing about my lion was when I wound him up he’d lean back, let out a frightful roar, and then spring forward. Well, I’d made friends with another little girl on the ship. Each night, our parents tucked us safely in bed. Once we were “sleeping,” they left the cabin to enjoy their dinner and evening of entertainment.

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That was our chance. As soon as the coast was clear, my friend rapped on my door, and we started our evening of entertainment. I’d grab my lion, and my friend and I would proceed with our ritual. We’d hide around a corner, and as the elegantly dressed passengers passed by, my lion would spring out at them. We thought this was great fun and attempted to hide our giggles. It didn’t take long before the passengers— at least the passengers on our deck—expected to be “surprised” by my ferocious lion. A few days into our voyage, my father explained that a couple onboard our ship had an invalid son who’d seen my lion. Their son loved my lion. They’d tried and tried to find a lion like mine, but they weren’t successful. By then I knew where the story was going. I wasn’t surprised when my father asked, “Will you please give your lion to this little boy?” I loved my lion. Should I do the right thing, or should I do what I wanted to do? It was a real dilemma. My father continued talking. I was told that the boy’s father knew I liked elephants and was willing to negotiate. He’d trade an elephant for my lion. I still wasn’t convinced. The elephant just plodded slowly, slowly, slowly across the room and wasn’t nearly as much fun as my lion. But even at nine years old, I’d learned an important Norris family lesson about generosity. I agreed to give up my lion. After we arrived in San Francisco, we picked up a car and drove south to Beverly Hills in Los Angeles. Along the way, we stopped and played on the beach in Carmel. It was a perfect Chamber of Commerce day—cobalt blue skies, white sand, crashing waves. Brud and I had a great time playing in the surf and picking up starfish. Being Midwest kids, we were enthralled with our starfish. We put them in a bucket, and I held that sand-crusted, sloshing bucket on my lap every inch of the way between Carmel and the Beverly Wilshire Hotel in Beverly Hills. Brud and I were thrilled that our cottage at the Beverly Wilshire had steps where we could proudly display our starfish. Much to our dismay, a few days later, our starfish disappeared. We couldn’t imagine what happened to them. It never occurred to us that dead, smelly starfish weren’t exactly a picture postcard image for the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. This was the era of the famous megaphone crooners, and Rudy Valle was among the best of the best. Some claim not only was he the

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first crooner, he invented the style. His first two records, “A Dream” and “Nola,” were instant hits. Guests at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel were thrilled that Rudy was the after-dinner performer. As you might guess, my siblings and I weren’t permitted to attend the show. This was elegant, adult-only entertainment. Or so they thought. My parents kissed us good-night and expected us to go to sleep. Brud and I closed our eyes and pretended to be good children. But as soon as the door clicked shut, we snuck out of our room and positioned ourselves in the wings where we had the best seats in the house. We were absolutely fascinated with the performance, probably more by the megaphone than by the famous star. Our uninvited presence didn’t bother the staff. We were quiet, and nobody paid much attention to us. I think they rather enjoyed seeing what they referred to as “the good Norris children” crouched behind the scenes in their pajamas. My parents, however, had an entirely different definition of what it meant to be “the good Norris children.”

Even at nine years old, I’d learned an important Norris family lesson: Generosity.

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School Days

Off to School, Me, 1930

Lincoln Elementary School The Talker

started school when I was five years old. The year was 1928—the year first-class postage was reduced from three cents back to two cents and Kellogg’s added Rice Krispies to its cereal lineup. My school was Lincoln Elementary School, the small public elementary school in St. Charles. I had about twenty kids in my class. Because I’d attended nursery school, my parents didn’t tell me too much about what to expect in kindergarten. I do remember I was excited to start kindergarten. I don’t recall a single detail about my first day of school, but that was a long time ago. Recess was fun. I remember playing tag and just running around, randomly, with my friends. I enjoyed being in plays, and gym was my favorite class. Because I loved to travel, I liked geography. I wasn’t a bad student—probably better than average. My grades were good, and I never caused any trouble. Well, almost never. I did talk out of turn in class. 037 Okay. True confessions here: I was a talker. When I was in the fifth grade, my teacher made me stay after school and write one hundred times: I shall not talk in class. I shall not talk in class. I shall not… I thought I’d never finish. I’d like to tell you that it cured me. But it didn’t. Fortunately, we weren’t graded on citizenship. I remember my first grade teacher. She was a sweet lady, and I liked her a lot. At one time or another, all the Norris children were in her class.

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True confessions here: I was a talker.

As a matter of fact, she was still teaching when I finished college. She probably should have retired, but she loved teaching. I also remember my sixth grade teacher. She wasn’t so sweet. She’d been my father’s teacher when he was in elementary school, and they didn’t get along very well. She and I didn’t have any problems, but she sure was a strict, tough teacher. If her students didn’t write properly, she’d whack them on the knuckles with a ruler. I never got whacked, but that’s not because I had excellent penmanship. It was because I’d had rheumatic fever, and she was afraid she’d hurt me. Even though I was the first of the Norris kids to go through the schools in St. Charles, I didn’t set a high bar for my younger brothers and sister. Or, if I did, they didn’t pay any attention.

Haines Junior High School New Challenges

fter elementary school, I went on to Haines Junior High School, the public junior high in St. Charles. The building was old and somewhat of a fire trap. As a matter of fact, my father attended school in this building. Heritage aside, I certainly didn’t have a warm, fuzzy feeling about the building. I simply didn’t like it, and there was nothing that could make me change my mind. 038 Haines Junior High was three stories tall. The home ec room was on the third floor. I sat through home economics classes terrified of fire drills. When the principal called a fire drill, students and teachers squeezed into this slippery metal chute and slid down to the ground level. People at the base watched you shoot out and, more importantly, caught you—if you were lucky. Well, from experience, I knew shooting through this dark tube wasn’t too bad if you were on the first or second

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floor—but the third floor? Fortunately, I never found out. Nonetheless, I was horrified my luck would change. I liked the competitiveness and the challenges of junior high school. It seems to me that school was more challenging in those days, but that’s another story. I’ve always delighted in challenges. When I was younger I may have been more competitive than I am today, but my pursuit of challenges hasn’t changed one bit. As I told you, I had no qualms telling my father, “If a boy can’t beat me fair and square, he isn’t going to win.” Even though I want to win, fairness has always been more important to me. Grades weren’t a problem for me. I was a good student, so my parents weren’t concerned about my grades. I earned mostly As and a few Bs. Of all things, my B in Latin was because I didn’t like the teacher. I know this doesn’t make sense, and I can’t really explain it. All I can tell you is that’s just the way it was. Changing rooms for each class was different, but after I got used to it, I actually enjoyed moving from room to room. I also liked having different teachers for different subjects. I thought their different

Me, circa 1936

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I’ve always delighted in challenges.

perspectives helped me to learn more. Plus, if there happened to be a teacher I didn’t like, I wasn’t stuck with her all day. Of course, I never stopped to consider what the teacher might think about me. 039

St. Charles High School & Ferry Hall School Dear Friends

eginning with ninth grade, I attended St. Charles High School, the public high school. To be honest with you, I really don’t remember much about my first two years of high school. I do, however, remember I could buy a package of chewing gum for a nickel and War of the Worlds—a radio play with Orson Wells—scared the entire country into believing Martians had invaded New Jersey. Isn’t it interesting how we remember the important things in life? Anyway, one of my mother’s dearest friends was an English teacher at St. Charles High School. As the story goes, she told my parents, “You may think your daughter is a genius. She isn’t. Her problem is she doesn’t have enough competition. You need to enroll her in a private school.” My parents listened, and a short time later, they announced that they were sending me to Ferry Hall School—a private all-girls school in Lake Forest, Illinois. When I heard the news, I thought: Well, that’s all right. I’m willing to go. I knew my mother graduated from Ferry Hall, and, interestingly, her head mistress was still there. In the fall of 1939, my parents loaded me and my belongings into the car, and we headed to Lake Forest. We found my dormitory and went directly to my room. My first impression was: My goodness. This is small. By the time we situated my clothes, my Victrola, my 45 rpm records, and my numerous pillows, there was hardly room for me. At least it was a private room.

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My Class at Haines Junior High, I’m the sixth student from the left in the front row

The bathroom, however, was public. I was dismayed to see many sinks lined up in a rather unappealing row. It was even worse when I realized I had to take a shower with all the other girls on my floor. It seemed to me girls were always in the showers. I never had any privacy. The bathroom was particularly crowed in the morning. At seven AM sharp we were awakened by a horrible bell. Everyone rushed to the showers. Breakfast was at seven-thirty. The bell for chapel rang at eight. Classes started at nine. We’d better be on time—for everything. The Ferry Hall campus was attractive. The two main buildings were constructed of red brick, and the architecture was rather Colonial. One building housed the freshmen, sophomores, juniors, and the head mistress. The dining room and large sitting room were also in this building. Seniors lived in another building. The old Ferry Hall building stood in the middle of the campus. I don’t remember complaining about the food. Basically, it was pretty good. We were served lots of starch. Macaroni and cheese was one of the staples. We didn’t have a school uniform. Instead, we wore skirts and sweaters and saddle shoes to class.

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Everything about Ferry Hall was strict, strict, strict. This was my first time away from home, and I must admit that I was homesick. Actually, I didn’t like my first year at Ferry Hall at all. But eventually, I settled down and started making good friends. I don’t remember the number of classes I had, but I do remember they were challenging. I wanted to do my best, so I studied hard for each one. Occasionally, we’d have some free time to go out and play tennis or some other sport, but life at Ferry Hall basically revolved around studying. Everyone looked forward to Wednesday afternoons. After our classes, we were allowed to leave campus and go into town for an ice cream cone or an ice cream soda. However, the rules followed us. Before taking the first step out the door, we donned our hats and gloves, and no one wondered what time to return. If we knew what was good for us— and we did—we were back in plenty of time to dress for dinner. There were two drugstores in town—one for the boys and one for the girls. And never the customers did meet. Even talking to a boy was absolutely forbidden. Ice cream cones had to be eaten in our drugstore. It simply wasn’t ladylike to be seen walking down the street licking an ice cream cone. On Saturday, we were permitted to see a movie. I remember there was only one movie theatre in town, but I can’t recall if boys were admitted to the theatre with the Ferry Hall girls. Probably not. We lived in horror of being restricted to campus and missing the Saturday outing. We’d whisper to each other, “Are you put on campus this week?” I never experienced the humiliation of being “put on campus.” But my sister is a different story. When I was a senior, Joie started her freshman year at Ferry Hall. And for the record, let it be known that—unlike me—she was assigned to a big room. Anyway, one Saturday afternoon, my friends and I were leaving campus for our weekly movie outing. I glanced toward the circle in the middle of campus, and there was my sister walking the circle. I gasped to my friend, “What’s Joie doing walking the circle?” My friend replied, “Didn’t you know? Joie was caught smoking.” I could only think: Oh! To think my sister would do such a thing. But I knew it was true. From the time Joann was a little girl, she didn’t hesitate to sneak cigarettes. I’m sad to tell you that she developed emphysema, which led to her death.

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My Senior Picture, Ferry Hall School, 1940

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I’ll never forget the dear friends I made.

Ferry Hall had a Presbyterian affiliation. Each day, we attended chapel, and on Sunday morning, we participated in a full church service. The service was formal and rich with tradition—tradition that included boys in the balcony throwing spitballs at girls in the pews below. I thought the seating arrangements were rather stupid. Girls would never trade their dignity for anything as disgusting as a spitball. But, then, no one asked me to assign seats. 040 I was seventeen years old when I graduated from Ferry Hall. I don’t remember much about the ceremony except it was held in the church. I do remember we wore white dresses and carried roses. Each girl had an attendant who accompanied her down the aisle. My attendant was Muriel, who was one of my best friends. Although many of my memories of Ferry Hall are rather faded, I’ll never forget the dear friends I made.

Bennett Junior College America at War

fter boarding school, I went to college. This was in 1941, and by then higher education for women was well accepted. I’m guessing that about half of all women went on to college. For me, there was never a doubt. From the time I was a young girl, I knew I wanted to attend college, and my parents supported me fully. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do with my education, so I selected Bennett Junior College in Millbrook, New York. Bennett was an all-girls school, and because I’d attended an all-girls boarding school, I felt comfortable there. I liked the girls I met. Plus, the curriculum was a basic college curriculum that I knew would transfer easily to a university.

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I get a little upset when I hear educators today insist that college freshmen must make definite career decisions. I believe school gives students the opportunity to formulate ideas and develop talents that lead to a career. These ideas change. They grow. They mature. They evolve. School broadens views and opens one’s mind to what’s next in life. Requiring a young person to decide absolutely—to commit to being a doctor, or an engineer, or a lawyer without having the opportunity to explore is wrong. Anyway, back to my college experiences. My first year at Bennett was especially memorable. On December 7, 1941, I was up on a hill preparing for a physiology exam. I and the skeleton I was studying were in our own world. Eventually, I’d had enough. Either I knew the names of his bones or I didn’t. I closed my book and started down the hill. Still somewhat caught up in the complexities of femurs and fibulas, I had a difficult time focusing on the scene below me. There was a great deal of commotion. Everyone was shouting. All I could think was: What in the world is all this chaos about? Through the hubbub, I sorted out the surreal news: Japan had attacked Pearl Harbor in Hawaii. I was stunned. Suddenly, studying for an exam lost all importance. On that day, I had no sense of what was about to happen to my country, to my friends, to my life. For the moment, I was bewildered. But as the days passed, the news sunk in. As President Roosevelt proclaimed, “This is a day that shall live in infamy.” Almost twenty-five hundred Americans had been killed. America was at war. Gradually, I became well aware that the friends I’d known for my entire life and probably my own brother would be drafted. The entire nation accepted the brutal fact that life as we knew it was about to change. But we would not be defeated. Everyone pulled together. Everyone did something to conquer the enemy. These feelings of patriotism, pride, and loyalty have never been replicated. Today it’s much to the contrary. I can’t figure out why it’s different. But I do know this upsets me.

America was at war. 165

The war did, indeed, change things. In June of my freshman year, after classes were over, I went home for what I thought was summer vacation. In those days, everyone traveled by train. This was normal. An unsuspecting friend and I bought our tickets for Chicago and boarded the train in Poughkeepsie, New York. What we discovered was anything but normal. In 1941, civilians were still permitted to ride the trains, but the trains had been transformed into what were called “troop trains.” My friend and I thought: Well, that’s an interesting name. But we had no idea what it meant. Our eyes opened wide as we stepped into a coach car jammed with soldiers and recruits who had boarded the train in New York City. Here we were—two young, naïve girls, all alone, on our way home from college—unexpectedly jostled by a crowd of loud, rambunctious men, who were headed toward their next duty stations and bound for unknown destinies. My friend and I huddled together and tried to make ourselves inconspicuous. This certainly wasn’t a happy occasion in my life. I just wanted to get home.

I believe school gives students the opportunity to formulate ideas and develop talents that lead to a career.

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Northwestern University Broadened Horizons

had intended to stay at Bennett for two years, but my father intervened. He was sure the Germans would invade the East Coast of the United Sates and announced, “There’s no way you’re going back to Bennett.” I knew better than to question his decision. I thought: Well. Okay. That’s all right. I’ve always wanted to attend Stanford. Here’s my chance. I filled out the application. I was excited. My father wasn’t. Again, he intervened. “Lala, the Japanese are going to invade the West Coast. You’re not going to Stanford.” Again, I knew better than to disagree. I thought: Okay. Now what? I can’t go to the East Coast. I can’t go to the West Coast. What about a nice institution tucked safely in the Midwest? In my young mind, Northwestern University seemed to be an excellent choice. And it was. I was only eighteen years old when I entered Northwestern. I ended up majoring in sociology and community organization. I didn’t really care for these two programs, but at the time they were my only choice. I thought: Oh well. I can still go to law school. I didn’t. Instead, right after college I got married. The Northwestern campus is designed in quads. When I was a student, one quad was for girls. Boys were housed on a totally different quad—a quad that during wartime was almost empty. The young men were fighting a war, not furthering their educations. The navy took over one building and surrounded the entire area with a fence making it off limits to the other students. I lived in a variety of dorm rooms. During my first semester, I shared a double room with a good friend. She transferred to another school, so the next semester I had a nice, large room with two roommates. The room itself was fine, but the closet was crammed with way too many clothes. To class, we wore those silly saddle shoes, skirts that covered our knees, and sweaters that matched our skirts. Then there was the semester I lived with two music majors. Betsy was a wonderful girl from Arizona. She played the cello and was lots of

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fun. The other roommate was annoying. She was so annoying I don’t even remember her name. I do, however, remember every morning, promptly at six-o’clock, her alarm clock rang. She’d jump up and immediately make her bed. Making her bed was fine. Singing at the top of her lungs wasn’t fine. She’d dial the radio to Don McNeill’s Breakfast Club and pretend she was in the audience. It was as if she were right there in downtown Chicago—laughing at the comedians and their sick jokes, clapping for the vocal groups, ad-libbing with the host, and singing with the soloists. None of these activities endeared her to me or Betsy. We could only wish she were in downtown Chicago. She was happy, happy, happy. Betsy and I weren’t. The only thing we could figure out was that Miss Annoyance was raised on a farm, and she was accustomed to getting up early. During the war, gasoline was rationed. This meant we didn’t get out and about very often. Instead, we studied. I was a good student, so I guess all the studying paid off. With that said, somehow I just couldn’t grasp the intricacies of science and was never the greatest science student. Grades were important to my father. This, of course, meant they were important to me. If my grades weren’t what he expected, he’d be after me. In some classes, I had to work hard to get As. In others, I didn’t. Work hard or not, I knew I’d better meet my father’s expectations. Along with my classes, I was in charge of a group of teenagers who today would be called “latchkey kids.” Their fathers had been drafted, and their mothers no longer were stay-at-home-moms. They’d joined the eight million other Rosie the Riveters—women who went to work in industries that supported the war effort and were now willing to hire women. After all, women wouldn’t be drafted. For the first time in our country’s history, droves of women packed lunch pails, donned pants, and whistled off to do what was once a man’s job. This, of course, left their children alone with nothing to do. So they did what kids who are alone often do—cause trouble. They were tough kids who weren’t easy to be around. This experience was a real eye-opener for a girl who had been protected by a loving family. I helped them with their homework, but the main purpose of the program was to make them feel wanted and to give them someplace to go where they wouldn’t be alone.

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This wasn’t easy for me. Along with dealing with the teenagers and their problems, I had to make the long trip from Evanston to the south side of Chicago. I’d ride the Third Rail to Chicago. From there, I’d board a bus and ride to where I’d catch a streetcar that took me to a building on Halstead Street located next to the stockyards. Heaven forbid if the wind were blowing from the wrong direction. My friends and I believed fervently in making a contribution to the war efforts. Personal pleasure paled in comparison to supporting our country. One roommate and I decided to volunteer at the hospital. We learned quickly that—regardless of our dedication—our actual hours of service were limited by Northwestern’s restrictions. During the week, we had to sign in on a sheet of paper on the hall table in our dorm by ten PM. On Friday and Saturday nights, we could be out until midnight, but not one minute later. The rules didn’t allow for wiggle room. Being late meant we’d be restricted to campus. As I recall, I made curfew every night—sometimes running, but I made it. My initial fear that my brother Brud would be drafted became a reality. He did finish his first year of college, but as soon as he turned eighteen, he was drafted into the Seabees. Brud was sent to Saipan and Okinawa where he was in front-line combat. But like so many men who fought in World War II, he didn’t talk about his experiences. He didn’t want to. I remember asking him one time if he’d killed anyone. Brud was silent for a minute. Then he closed his eyes and said, “I hope not.” That was the only time we talked about the war. Although civilians in the States didn’t experience the horrors of combat, we did deal with certain lifestyle changes. We couldn’t drive as much as we did before the war, so we did a lot more walking. Back then, however, public transportation was certainly better than it is now. We had food stamps for meat, sugar, butter, oil, and cheese. Shoes and silk stockings were difficult to get. But the inconveniences were nothing compared to the miseries our troops suffered. We didn’t complain. Actually, we were happy to make these small sacrifices. Several of my friends were killed in combat. Because St. Charles was such a small town, it seemed to me that the whole town heard about the losses almost immediately and rushed to rally around the stricken families. We were saddened beyond words, but we were proud. We were proud of our fallen friends, and we were proud of our country. Our

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boys died for a cause. Our boys died to let freedom ring. Our boys were heroes. Nonetheless, this was tough. We gave comfort and strengthened our resolve to support the war efforts. My father spent a good deal of time in Washington DC, where he promoted the Victory Garden program. I know he did other things, but I’m not sure what they were. He just didn’t talk about it. My mother was head of the Red Cross in St. Charles. Actually, she initiated the Red Cross efforts there. When I came home from college on vacations, I’d help fold bandages. The Red Cross volunteers called themselves “Angels of Mercy.” And they were. Everybody knitted something for someone. I remember wristlets—short tubes of wool that prevented icy wind from whistling up soldiers’ sleeves—and helmet-like hats with a single hole intended for visibility. The skill of the knitters varied. Sometimes the hole was in the correct place. Sometimes it wasn’t. I remember thinking: Oh. Here we are—a group of women sitting around folding bandages. I don’t know how sanitary this is. Nonetheless, I willingly gave my time. It was one way I could contribute to my country. I remember taking a class called “Riflery.” That’s how I learned to shoot a gun. During some classes, I’d think: Oh. This is a cinch. I’d close one eye, aim my pistol, and hit targets on the range with no problem. That’s where my marksmanship ended. On the days I’d lie down prone and shoot a rifle, I wasn’t so cocky. I don’t know why I had to take this class. Perhaps the powers-that-be thought we needed to know how to shoot—just in case. But I’m not sure. All I know is I showed up and shot. I have no problem telling you that in college I was one of those odd people. I pledged a sorority, but because I saw things I didn’t care for, I quit. In those days, withdrawing from a sorority was almost unheard of. The dean of women called me into her office. The president of the university called me into his office. But compared to what my father had to say, their reprimands were mild. My father really got after me. He lashed out, “What’s wrong with you? You gave a pledge. I’ve told you and told you and told you—you never break a pledge.” Of course, I listened politely. After his tirade was over, I replied, “But I feel I have a reason to break my pledge.” Then I did my best to describe the circumstances. I explained that one night when I was on phone duty,

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an alumna left a message for the president of the sorority. The gist of the message was that the sorority must reject a girl—a wonderful girl—and in her place accept a girl just because her family had money. Apparently, there wasn’t room on the roster for both girls. To me, this wasn’t the right thing to do. I went to the president of the sorority and announced, “If money is the basis for admission, there isn’t a place in this sorority for me either. I’m leaving.” And I did. I graduated from Northwestern University in 1945. But there’s more to the story. I didn’t really graduate. The problem was related to, of all things, my grade in Spanish. When I was at Bennett Junior College, I received straight As in Spanish, but actually, I didn’t earn the As. You’re probably wondering: What? How can that be? Well, the Spanish teacher at Bennett, bless her heart, was Italian. She and her husband came to this country because he was awarded a professorship at an Ivy League school. Unfortunately, shortly after their arrival, he was killed in an automobile accident. Because the war was raging in Europe, his wife couldn’t get back to Italy, so Bennett hired her to teach Spanish. The poor dear spoke very little English. And as is common when someone is different, many girls ridiculed her. No one but me paid any attention to her. I felt sorry for her and went out of my way to be nice to her. That was all well and good. There was, however, a slight problem: I didn’t learn a thing about Spanish. Nonetheless, with the great A on my record, off I went to Northwestern. At Northwestern, things were a little different. It took more than playing nice to earn a grade. I struggled through my Spanish class to finish with a C minus. Enter problem number two: To graduate from Northwestern, a student must earn a C in a foreign language. If you didn’t earn a C, you had to take the course over. Well, I thought: They’ll never see that little minus and went on my merry way. The registrar was smarter than I thought. The minus was noticed, and just before graduation, I was told I had to take a Spanish competency exam. I must admit that I didn’t study one bit for the exam. I thought: I haven’t even looked at Spanish for a couple of years. How will studying help? Enter problem number three: I flunked the exam, and my class graduated without me.

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That summer, even though I was working, I did buckle down and study for the exam. Come September, I passed with flying colors and was now an official recipient of a Bachelor of Science degree from Northwestern University. I thought: That was so easy. Why didn’t I listen and do this in the first place? My parents just shook their heads. They knew I was doing a lot for the war effort, so my minus was really okay. With that said, the most important non-academic lesson I learned in college was to listen to others’ viewpoints. My college experiences broadened my horizons. They introduced me to a variety of people and helped me to understand the value of an open mind. I believed then— and still do today—there’s always more to learn.

I believed then—and still do today— there’s always more to learn.

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Married Life

Introducing Mr. and Mrs. George Howard Gaynor, 1946

My Husband George Howard Gaynor

knew of George Gaynor long before I knew George Gaynor. For years, my father talked about this George Gaynor. According to my father, George Gaynor was most likely the best catch of the century. Often, dinner table conversation turned to the young men Frannie, my adopted sister, and I were dating. My father listened—briefly. Then he’d put down his fork, and we knew what was coming. “Well, that’s interesting, but I know this young man in New York who you girls really should meet. His name is George Gaynor.” He’d tell us—again—that George Gaynor worked for Texaco and was a fine young man. He’d go on and on and on and on. If Frannie and I heard about George Gaynor once, we heard about him a thousand times. We’d listen politely. Then one of us would point out, “But we’re in Illinois, and George Gaynor is in New York.” My father ignored our logic, and in a week or two he would tout the wonders of George Gaynor. The more he praised George Gaynor, the more Frannie and I laughed and joked about him—never, of course, within earshot of my father. A few days before Brud was shipped overseas for duty in World War II, I was in New York with my parents. Dad had a meeting. Then our plan was to go to Providence and give Brud a proper send-off. Well, rather spontaneously I heard that my roommate from Bennett Junior College was in the city. We talked and decided it would be nice to catch

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up over dinner. This was fine with my parents, so we agreed that I’d take the train to Providence the next day. Mother and Dad left. I was in the hotel room waiting for the dinner hour when the phone rang. The caller was my father. “Lala, you are to have tea with George Gaynor this afternoon.” “Tea with George Gaynor?” “Yes. Tea. Meet him at three o’clock.” Click. I hung up and thought: Ah, tea. This sounds like a perfect description of George Gaynor. Even though I was not at all looking forward to meeting George Gaynor—especially for tea—I knew my father. What he said, I did. On the other side of the city, George’s boss, who was the president of Texaco, announced, “George, Mr. Norris just called and told me to tell you that you are to take his daughter to tea this afternoon.” “Tea with Mr. Norris’s daughter?” “Yes. Tea. Meet her at three o’clock. Now go home and change your suit.” “Change my suit? What’s wrong with the suit I’m wearing?” “George, just do as I say. Go home and change your suit. After all, you are meeting Mr. Norris’s daughter. And remember, even though Mr. Norris isn’t your direct boss, he is on Texaco’s Board of Directors.” George grumbled—under his breath—and went off to do as he was directed. He thought: Ah, tea. This sounds like a perfect description of Mr. Norris’s daughter. I arrived first. When George came to the table, I thought: My. He looks a lot better than I thought he’d look. George took one look at me, and thought: My. She looks a lot better than I thought she’d look. We proceeded with our date. But we didn’t have tea. George had a martini, and I had a Coca-Cola. We had a nice afternoon—an afternoon we didn’t want to end, but I had plans to meet my friend. After our first date, George and I corresponded through letters, occasional phone calls, and quick, catch-as-catch-can times together. Phone calls weren’t easy because I lived in a dorm with only one phone on a floor, and there was usually a long line of girls waiting outside the phone booth.

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I knew of George Gaynor long before I knew George Gaynor. George was busy with work, and I was busy with school, so finding time together was even more difficult. However, George’s job responsibilities required him to travel back and forth from New York to California, and he’d manage to switch trains in Chicago. I’d ride the train from Northwestern into Chicago, where we’d enjoy lunch together. If it worked out, we’d do the same thing on his way back to New York. On occasion, when my father had a Texaco meeting, I’d go to New York, and we’d manage a few hours together. But that was it. George and I had a strange courtship. We liked each other, but there was nothing romantic. He dated other women. I dated other men. Basically, we weren’t serious. For about four years, we were just friends. Because we weren’t really dating, we didn’t break up, but there were months when we went our own ways. Then one time I was in Washington with my father. George was attending a school for international studies in DC, so we thought this was a good opportunity to see each other. As usual, we met for dinner. There was nothing extraordinary about the evening except George asked, “Will you marry me?” My answer was as spontaneous as his question. Two days later we eloped. We knew Dad was busy with his Victory Garden work, so this was a perfect opportunity. We made quick arrangements, and off we went to Rockville, Maryland. Our March 28, 1946 ceremony involved a minister, his wife, and, and of course, George and me. My outfit was anything but elaborate—just a plain old suit. George gave me a wedding ring and a promise that an engagement ring would follow. It was just that simple. After the wedding, we went to Western Union and sent Dad a telegram: Married George—stop—Very happy—stop—Will see you around Easter in St. Charles—stop—Love, Lala. George and I were traveling, so Dad had no idea where he could send a reply to my telegram. True to our word, at Easter, we visited

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my family, and I introduced George Howard Gaynor, my husband. We weren’t concerned about what Dad would say. After all, he was the one who insisted on tea. In retrospect, I was confident I wanted to marry George. Through our correspondence, we’d learned a lot about each other. Actually, it’s rather amazing what you can learn about a person just through correspondence. I liked his manner and respected the type of person he was. I thought: This George Gaynor is a hard worker. He takes good care of his family. He’ll be a good husband. And I was correct. George was born November 12, 1915, to a working-class family. My family inherited the Texaco fortune. George’s family wore blue collars. But he didn’t care. Never once did I think George was intimidated by my family’s wealth. But I was my mother’s daughter. I didn’t pay any attention to money—or lack of money. I simply didn’t notice what people thought, or didn’t think, about my family’s money. When I met George, he had two living sisters, a stepmother, a half-brother, and a half-sister. I adored his sisters and liked the way he treated his family. Until the day she died, George took excellent care of his stepmother. This meant a lot to me. George’s sisters were wonderful people. One sister, Dorothy, married a cinematographer who worked for Columbia Pictures in Hollywood. Claudette Colbert insisted that he was the only cinematographer capable of shooting her movies. Unfortunately, he died at a young age. In 1936, his other sister, Gay, planned an island cruise. Before she left New York, her friends insisted she meet a special man who lived in Haiti. They contacted “Mr. Wonderful” and arranged for him to show Gay around the island. As planned, he met her at the boat dock. Three days later they were married. Talk about quick marriages. George finished high school, but that was the end of his formal education. He didn’t go to college. Instead, he went to work. I don’t remember George’s first employer, but I do remember he worked in a pool of fellows who were at the very bottom of the pecking order. I guess the name of the company isn’t all that important because shortly after George was hired, it went bankrupt. This was during the Depression, and jobs were difficult—almost impossible—to come by. Somehow, George managed to get hired at Texaco. Again, he started at the very bottom.

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This time, however, the results were night-and-day different. I don’t know who it was, but a very influential man at Texaco noticed George. This man picked George out of a large pool of young fellows, and when Texaco’s president decided it was time to hire an assistant, George was his man. That was the beginning of George’s successful, lifelong career at Texaco. Texaco’s president was very fond of George. During the 1940s, when Texaco was having difficulty with the Arabs, George traveled to California with the president and helped him sort out all the problems. Eventually, Texaco sent George to a school for international studies. From there, he went to Belgium and never looked back. George loved the responsibilities and—quite frankly—the challenges of a foreign office. I don’t think other people knew how to deal with people in foreign countries. But George did. He became head of Texaco’s overseas branches, and that’s where he stayed until he retired in 1971. Texaco was good for George. And George was good for Texaco.

Early Years Together Consider Your Spouse’s Feelings

fter George and I were married, we lived in Washington DC until George finished his classes at the school for international studies. This was the 1940s, and it was difficult to locate housing, but somehow or other we were fortunate and managed to rent a room in a rather nice hotel. I wasn’t familiar with Washington, so I didn’t look for a job. Actually, I can’t remember what I did. I probably did a lot of sightseeing and enjoyed reading a book. Fortunately, for George, I didn’t do a lot of cooking. He learned from day one: The Joy of Cooking wasn’t on the top of my must-read list. The menu for our first home-cooked meal was perfect—or so I thought. I shopped for lamb chops, baking potatoes, and frozen peas. I fussed over setting the table. All was well until I started cooking everything at the exact same time. From there, things deteriorated—quickly. Poor

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George. He was rather horrified. He just shook his head and said, “Let’s go out to dinner.” I reconciled myself by thinking: At least I don’t have to work very hard to win the Betty Crocker Award for most improved. Shortly after George graduated from the school for international studies, Texaco sent him to New York. Again, it was difficult to find housing. Again, we were fortunate—except for one slight inconvenience: The El ran directly outside our bedroom window. I didn’t think I’d ever get used to the clatter, but after a few nights, it became just one of those things. We only lived in this apartment for a couple of weeks, and I must admit that it didn’t bother me one bit when we moved to another building. Our new apartment was on the second floor of a building on 77th Street in Jackson Heights, New York. For the rest of our lives, George reminded me frequently, “You know, that’s the best place we lived— ever.” After all, where else could we stand in the middle of the kitchen and reach absolutely everything? We entered our apartment through a front door that opened into a little hallway that led straight to the kitchen. The living room was on the right. The bedroom and small bathroom were on the left. And that was it. Every era has its “must haves,” and, for my generation, the pressure cooker topped the list. Everybody who was anybody cooked with a pressure cooker. Somehow, one of these technological wonders ended up in my kitchen. Not wanting to be left behind the times, I read the directions and thought: This is wonderful. Dutifully and diligently, I set about packing food into my new toy. Mission accomplished, I joined George in the living room. I read and waited. About half-way through my third page—BOOOOOM! George and I almost knocked each other down charging to the kitchen. There we found our poor pressure cooker. Its top had clattered to the floor. Its gauge had shattered. And the food? Well, the food had splattered on the ceiling. “Let’s go out to dinner,” was all George said. Somehow,

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going out to dinner was becoming a habit. When we got home, I packed my pressure cooker into its box, and for all I know—or care—it’s still there. This was post World War II, and food in our country was still rationed. Not only did I have to learn to cook, I had to figure out the complexities of ration stamps. Foods such as meat, butter, sugar, milk, and eggs were limited, but I was determined. I’d take my ration books to the store and do my best. But even with my food allotment figured out, my trials were far from over. I had to learn how to use those funny little gas burners that topped my stove. Eventually, I did learn to cook meals that were fairly edible. This amazed me—and it certainly amazed George. When we were first married, George paid the bills. He gave me money for food, and he took care of the rest of our bills. I don’t remember our exact household budget, but I do know our expenses weren’t very high. As I recall, our rent was about a hundred dollars a month. I don’t remember what food prices were, but I was probably buying everything we needed for less than fifteen dollars a week. When I look at the difference between what a hundred dollars buys today and what a hundred dollars bought back then there’s no comparison. Today, I look at my hundred dollar cart of food and think: There’s not one little goodie in there. It’s full of just necessities. But that’s not much of a benchmark. Back when we were first married, I never had a hundred dollars to buy food. After we bought a house, George handed bill paying over to me, and I know I was very careful with what we spent. We watched every penny. Our life was simple. George had a car, but I didn’t need one. It was easy for me to walk wherever I had to go. Our apartment was small, so it didn’t require much care. The tiny bathroom seemed even smaller because it was a convenient place to hang laundry. On occasion, George and I fussed at each other about my choice of a clothesline, but if you want to know the truth, nothing changed. Our apartment was furnished, but it didn’t take long for us to admit that the bed was so lumpy we couldn’t possibly sleep on it. We counted our small amount of money and decided we’d scrimp, so we could buy a new bed. Buying that new bed—our first major purchase as a married couple—was a really big deal.

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When we entertained guests, either George or I ran and sat in what appeared to be the most comfortable chair in the living room. Our company looked at us a little strangely, but we didn’t care. The springs in the chair were broken, so whoever sat on it got stuck with a protruding wire. I look back and think: What an interesting apartment. For leisure, we enjoyed visiting George’s stepmother or his friends in New York. We also played a lot of tennis and went to the beach with George’s half-sister and her husband. Back then we all watched our pennies, so whoever had the most gas volunteered to drive. We didn’t know what television was, so we didn’t miss it. We listened to music and read. Unlike today, life wasn’t complex. It didn’t seem to matter what we did—everybody had a good time. I often think: Gee. Back then life was fun. I can’t think of a single thing about married life that I didn’t like. Well—maybe one or two things. George annoyed me because he was so darn organized. Actually, you might as well know the full truth: This drove me crazy. But then I drove him crazy because I was so disorganized. When I stop to think about it, I remember something else that annoyed me. George was the world’s slowest eater. And to make matters worse, he could eat anything and everything—desserts included—and never gain an ounce. But I guess it wasn’t all that bad. We were together fiftysix years and didn’t change a thing. Being married to George was easy. I loved the companionship. Having someone to talk with and to share decision-making with was wonderful. We developed a great respect for each other and simply enjoyed being together. George was always a gentleman and a good sport about whatever happened. He was thoughtful and considerate of others’ feelings. I have one piece of advice for newlyweds or, for that matter, any married couple: Consider your spouse’s feelings. When your spouse plans something for you, but you think: This isn’t what I really want to do, do it anyway. Most likely your spouse put a lot of thought into the plan. Go along with it. Have fun. Enjoy. If you do, you’re on your way to developing a lifelong partner. I know because that’s how life happened for George and me. We simply didn’t think of our life together in any other way. When I look back at the life George and I shared, I know I’m blessed. I have wonderful memories. I hope your life is the same.

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Children

DeeDee and Brud, Christmas 1949

Our Daughter Lavern Dellora Gaynor

ne of my first memories of married life is the birth of our daughter. George and I didn’t talk about having children. We didn’t have a plan. But suddenly, life as we knew it changed. Lavern Dellora Gaynor—who, by the way, likes the name Lavern about as well as I do, so we ended up calling her “DeeDee”—was born January 7, 1947. My labor was long and difficult, and I remember thinking: This is the last child I’ll ever have. During the twelve days I was in the hospital—which in the 1940s was common practice—the nurse wouldn’t allow me to touch DeeDee. As I’d reach into the bassinette, she’d grab my hand and reprimand me. “Don’t you realize if you touch her, she might get an infection?” All I could think was: But she’s my daughter. Eventually, I was allowed to hold DeeDee—but only briefly. As soon as visiting hours approached, the bassinette was whisked back to the nursery, and no one was allowed to get close to her. My mother, sister, and even George weren’t allowed to touch DeeDee until the day we went home. The staff was very strict. I remember thinking: Well. This certainly isn’t a very cozy feeling. Admittedly, DeeDee wasn’t the most beautiful baby in the world. She had some rather bad forceps marks on her face, and her head was slightly misshapen. But that didn’t matter to me.

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I was a good mother but found out rather quickly that the job description for motherhood is a tough one. I don’t remember much about our trip home from the hospital. I do remember my mother was with us. She helped us for a few days, but then we were on our own. We still lived in that horrible little apartment on 77th Street in Jackson Heights, New York. The apartment had one bedroom—one bedroom that now must sleep George, me, and our new baby. How my mother fit into that tiny apartment, I’m not sure, but she made it work. With all the trappings of a new baby, we were even more crowded. I especially remember the kitchen. The steaming bottle sterilizer, sterilized bottles, sterilized nipples, sterilized bottle bands, and formula took up every inch of space. There was absolutely no room to move around. I was a good mother but found out rather quickly that the job description for motherhood is a tough one. Along with numerous allergies, DeeDee had colic. Even her pediatrician was bewildered. He constantly switched her formula, but nothing helped. I’d stumble out of bed and give her the two AM bottle, but I could never—and I mean never—get her back to sleep. She’d scream and scream and scream until I wanted to join her. George had to get up early and go to work, but, bless his heart, he never failed to rescue me. For three months that seemed to last for three years, George spent the wee hours of the morning walking the floor with our screaming daughter. I’m not sure, but my guess is his colleagues questioned his rather disheveled office attire and wondered about his afternoon yawns, but that didn’t bother George. He didn’t quit his night job. Why DeeDee went back to sleep for George but not for me was—and still is—an unsolved mystery, but we were too tired to ask questions. We simply accepted the reality. Life certainly changes after a baby arrives. Suddenly, every single hour of every single day was regulated by the baby’s needs and demands. Probably because I grew up in the country, I thought DeeDee needed fresh air. No matter how hot or how cold the weather, I’d get her

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appropriately bundled up, and out we’d go. Why I thought this air was great for her, I don’t know. But I did. In the 1940s, disposable diapers were still a figment of some futurist’s imagination. This meant washing diapers was up to me. The laundry was in the basement of our building. I’d do my best to haul my heavy laundry basket full of dirty diapers to the elevator and get them down to the basement and into the washing machine before George left for work. But some days, the clock ticked faster than my resolve. With George gone, I had no choice but to put DeeDee in her playpen and rush down to the basement with my load of diapers. The problem was everybody in our building used the same laundry. If I didn’t make it to the basement early enough, the washing machines were already full. So I’d rush back upstairs and wait. I’d repeat this drill until my diapers were, finally, agitating in their soapy water. This was in the days before clothes dryers, which meant I had to clothespin my diapers to the rope clotheslines. Because they took up more than their fair share of basement real estate, I was never a winner in the tenant’s popularity contest. You’re probably thinking: My. My. This sounds terribly primitive. It was. As DeeDee got a little older, she developed croup. This meant my motherhood job description had to be updated. It now had a clause that read: A steaming croup kettle is your responsibility. I learned that a croup kettle is a pan filled with medicated steaming water. I don’t remember the name of the medication, but I do remember it gave off an awful odor. At least it helped DeeDee sleep. George and I were less fortunate. There’s nothing quite like a bedroom hissing and wheezing with medicated steam from a croup kettle. While I worked on the rather temperamental croup kettle, George carried DeeDee into our tiny bathroom and turned on the hot water in the shower at full blast. He’d sit on top of the toilet lid and hold the gasping DeeDee until I arrived with the croup kettle. Of course, because babies are babies, this usually happened in the middle of the night. Early the next morning, I’d be back in the basement with my load of dirty diapers. My hair hung straight as a stick. I had bags under my eyes. My wrinkled clothes were less than flattering. The ladies in the building knew how I’d spent the night. Inevitably, one of them looked me up and down and commented, “Oh. I see DeeDee

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had another bout with croup.” I’d think: No kidding! and do my best to refrain from crying. I knew my neighbor was trying to be sweet, but that didn’t make life easier. DeeDee didn’t grow out of her croup for several years. I look back and think: My. My. Those were most interesting days.

Our Son George Norris Gaynor

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omehow my resolve to have only one child wasn’t as firm as I intended it to be. On January 19, 1949, our son George Norris Gaynor was born. DeeDee insisted his name couldn’t be George. In her two-year-old mind, George was her father’s name, and no one was allowed to share. She decided “Baby Bruter” was appropriate. When we eventually bought a house, all the children in our neighborhood followed DeeDee’s lead and called George “Baby.” I decided our son wouldn’t appreciate being called “Baby” forever, so it was my responsibility to rescue him from the Norris horrible name tradition. I came up with Brud—the name I gave to my brother. By the time Brud was born, we’d moved into a larger apartment in the same building. However, just because it was larger didn’t mean it had a second bedroom. Imagine George, me, a two-year-old, and an infant all in the same bedroom. Can you say “crowded”? Obviously, our plan didn’t include a second baby. My pregnancy was difficult. I had edema, so each time my legs swelled to the size of watermelons, which was frequently, back in the hospital I’d go. I was in the hospital more than I was home and having an almost two-year-old to care for didn’t make this easy. What saved me was help from people who willingly came to my rescue. At a moment’s notice, my mother, George’s half-sister, and a wonderful woman who lived in our building dropped their responsibilities and stayed with DeeDee. I’d lie in my hospital bed and wonder: How in the world do other people survive? No matter how miserable I was, I appreciated what I had. Compared to people who are all alone in the world, my troubles were minor.

With two young children to care for, my days were hectic.

During my fourteen-day hospital confinement, my sister stayed in our apartment and took care of DeeDee. Poor George was relegated to the sofa. One morning, I received a phone call from Joann. She was obviously frantic and operating in panic mode. “Lal, DeeDee and I are going grocery shopping. I’m trying to make a list. Tell me quick—do I buy tomatoes by the piece or by the pound?” Joann had a reputation for being clever in the kitchen, but finally the real truth was revealed. No matter. Bless her heart, she was doing her best. When George and I arrived home with “Baby Bruter,” DeeDee took one quick peek and poked her finger in his eye. Then she pinched his nose. I thought: Great—just great. What’s next? It wasn’t long before my question was answered. About two weeks later, I hooked Brud into a baby harness and strapped him to a table. Thinking he was safe, I ran out of the room—just for a moment. DeeDee was quick. I heard her little voice saying, “Ummmm…Is that good? Ummmm…Is that good? Like? Like? Like?” My heart stopped. I could only imagine what she was up to. I raced back into the room to find her busily and importantly feeding “Baby Bruter” a chocolate cookie. My only response was to collapse—weakly but thankfully—into the closest chair. With two young children to care for, my days were hectic. Everything ran on a schedule. I sterilized bottles. I washed mountains of laundry. I fed. I bathed. I dressed. I rocked. I aired. I picked up toys. Then I started all over again. It seemed as if I were on a perpetual treadmill to nowhere. At least DeeDee was potty trained. About the time Brud was six months old, my sister got married. Because the entire family attended her wedding, it was the perfect time to have Brud baptized. Of course, the occasion demanded that Brud be all decked-out in an adorable little outfit. My brother, Brud, and his wife, Gay, agreed to be the godparents, the ceremony was arranged, and even though it was a very hot day, family and friends filled the church. Gay said, over and over, “It’s much too hot in here.” I didn’t pay any

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attention until—much to my horror—I saw she’d stripped off little Brud’s clothes, and here was my almost naked son being baptized in nothing but his diaper.

Proud Mother Family First

raised my children to respect other people. That’s the Norris way. I taught them to be polite and to have good manners. Teaching DeeDee to curtsey was something else, but other than that, I was successful. Back when DeeDee and Brud were children, parents followed strict schedules. Doctor Spock ruled. That was the way of the times. Our days didn’t vary: George went to the office. I followed my childcare routine. At six o’clock, George arrived home to find the children fed, bathed, and in their pajamas. We’d read them stories, put them to bed, and only then, eat our dinner. Nowadays, I sit and think: How wonderful it is. People actually go out to eat and take their children with them. We never considered taking our children to a restaurant. Maybe my schedules were too strict, but when I look at DeeDee and Brud today, I think: Everything worked out just fine. Our social life revolved around friends who had children the same ages as ours. Even on the weekends, almost everything we did involved the children. We’d go to the beach, or picnic, or visit the zoo. Sometimes we’d just get in the car and take a ride. In the 1950s, life was simple. Some suggest it was the best time in American history. The war was over. Our boys were home. America was triumphant. People recall fondly that the postwar era was a comfortable time—a time of prosperity and upward mobility. For the Gaynor family, this certainly was true. I was affectionate with our children. I gave them frequent hugs and complimented them on their accomplishments. Rarely did I get angry. I do, however, remember one infamous day that goes down in Gaynor folklore. Brud and his friend, Angel, were playing in our basement

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playroom. How she came to be named Angel escapes me. She was quite a character. If she was an angel, she was an angel with a pitchfork. Anyway, it got to be lunchtime—time for Angel to go home. I called down the stairs, “Children, it’s lunchtime. Brud, tell Angel she needs to go home now.” No answer. I called again—a bit more loudly, “Brud, come upstairs for lunch. It’s time for Angel to go home.” Still no answer. I heard giggling. Then Angel whispered, “Brud, your mommy is calling you.” Brud responded with, “I know, but that’s not her ‘come here’ voice yet.” With that, I gave a big yell. Brud knew. “Now that’s when I have to come.” Being a parent brought me great joy. I believe—I hope anyway— my children know how much they were loved and how much fun George and I had with them. We were interested in what they did in school. We were always there for them. No matter what, they could depend on us for support and guidance. Basically, our children were good children. Sure we had our little episodes, but nothing happened that doesn’t happen in most families. DeeDee and Brud were close. They watched out for each other. I remember when DeeDee was a teenager, sometimes she’d get a little angry and act out. Brud would say, “Oh, Mother, just sit back and relax. Let her go. She’ll calm down in a bit and everything will be just fine.” And he was correct. I do remember one incident that occurred when DeeDee attended the international school in Brussels. As the story goes, a number of kids in DeeDee’s class were fooling around testing a lock, and one boy was chosen to be the guinea pig. For some mysterious reason, this boy was chained to his desk. Unexpectedly, a fire alarm sounded, and a group of boys picked up their friend—desk and all—and ran out of the Quonset hut where the class was being held. The principal didn’t think this was appropriate behavior, so he expelled the boys. Well, DeeDee decided this wasn’t fair. She marched into the principal’s office and stated, “If you’re going to expel the boys, you must expel the girls too. We were all a part of this.” So he did. It didn’t matter to the principal that George and I were on the school board. I must tell

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you that George was most unhappy. In his opinion, this situation was anything but favorable. Over the years, my children did many things to make me proud. DeeDee is a terrific mother. And her mothering doesn’t stop with her children. She looks out after me—sometimes too much. I’m proud of her artistic talents. She’s a happy person and a very good sport. Sometimes I think she works too hard. She’s a wonderful hostess and regularly holds big dinner parties. I must tell you, however, it annoys me that DeeDee still plays ice hockey. At sixty-one years old, I think she should stop. But that’s just her mother’s opinion. Brud is a steady plodder, a hard worker, and a real family man. He loves his boys and is a good father. Brud has a good head on his shoulders. Ever since he was a little boy, he just knew how to think logically. He sets his goals and is steadfast in working toward them. DeeDee and Brud have completely different personalities, and I’ve done my best to respect their differences. If I were to rate myself as a parent on a scale of one to ten with one being low and ten being high, I’d give myself about an eight. Sometimes when I look at other people, I sit and think: I wasn’t clever enough to do what they’re doing. But I know that whenever George and I made a decision, the family came first. I hope DeeDee and Brud know that no matter what, they come first. I hope my children remember me as being an understanding mother—a mother who listened to their opinions and problems. I hope they remember their father as always being there for them. Like me, George was willing to listen to their problems. Granted, they didn’t always like his advice, but when they asked him for his opinion, he was quick to listen to their side of the story and offer suggestions. My children will be the first to tell you that it didn’t take much for their father to lose his temper. But there were times—like the times Brud started a few fires—when I was amazed at how quiet, calm, and understanding George could be. If George were here today, I’m confident he’d tell the children that he hopes they’ll live good lives, always be honest, and be thoughtful and kind to other people. He wouldn’t demand that they be successful in any specific business. Instead, he’d tell them that the most important thing in life is to be happy. Yes. I’m confident he’d say, “A good life is a happy life lived through generosity and kindness to others.”

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My message to my children is this: DeeDee and Brud, I hope you continue to be blessed with happy homes. So far, it seems to me that your marriages are built on the same type of friendship that I shared with your father. I hope this friendship continues. I hope it strengthens. I hope it serves as a wonderful example for your children, who will, in turn, find marriage partners who become their best friends. I hope you continue to look forward and see the good things in life. I hope you carry on the Norris legacy of gracious giving. It’s common for children to learn from their parents. Parents teach their children values. They give them advice. They help them develop skills. I did all these things. But I also want to tell you that I’ve learned a lot from my children. From DeeDee, I learned patience. From Brud, I re-learned the value of an education. When you stop and think about it, learning is a spoke on the circle of life—at least it’s a spoke on the circle of my life.

Being a parent brought me great joy.

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The Gaynors at Home

An Attempted Family Christmas Picture, 1950

Tuckahoe, New York 1949

hen I think back on my life, I realize that from the first tiny hotel room George and I rented in Washington DC to my beautiful house in Naples, Florida, my homes have their own stories—stories that will add to your understanding of my life. I want to share these stories with you now. The first house George and I bought was in Tuckahoe, New York. It was actually located in an area called “Colonial Heights,” which was in Yonkers, but our official address was Tuckahoe. Compared to our one bedroom apartment, this house seemed huge. By then DeeDee was two and Brud was six months, so we certainly needed the extra space. 043 This was a cute, cozy house—sort of Colonial looking. Its most wonderful feature was a pair of huge Japanese cherry trees in the front yard. They were so spectacular that every spring when they bloomed, people from miles around stopped their cars directly in front of our house just to look at our trees loaded with their beautiful pink blossoms. In all my travels, I’ve never seen trees prettier than those Japanese cherry trees. We enjoyed having a yard and felt safe letting our children go outside and play with the other children in the neighborhood. Those were the days when you could let your children wander around and not worry about them. I’ll never forget Little Jerry—a boy who lived in the house directly behind ours. Little Jerry was continually doing

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Reading a Book, Brud, Me, DeeDee, at home in Tuckahoe, New York, 1951

something—actually anything and everything—naughty. It didn’t take Little Jerry long to become George’s self-appointed nemesis. Our house had a small covered porch built onto the back. On the weekends, George enjoyed sitting on the porch, but he had a problem: The late afternoon sun glared in his eyes. George decided the only way to fix the situation was to put up an awning. He shopped as only George could shop, and after making a prudent selection, he arranged to have his awning installed. The first Saturday afternoon under his new awning went exactly as he’d planned. Relaxed, George came in the house and said to me, “This is wonderful. Now I can sit on the porch without the sun shining in my eyes.” All was well in George’s world. He could hardly wait until the next weekend when he could—once again—take it easy under his awning. 044 During the week, it made sense for me to lower George’s awning. This kept the house cooler, so I thought: Why not? Well, Little Jerry had a brand new bow and arrow set, and unbeknown to me, he decided George’s awning was the perfect target. Each time I went into the backyard, I’d spot numerous funny little circles of light on the pavement.

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At first, I thought: My. My. Isn’t that strange? But I didn’t pay much attention and went about my business. The funny little circles, however, didn’t go away. A closer look at George’s awning revealed the source of the problem. It was full of holes—holes that were a perfect match to the size of Little Jerry’s arrowheads. What was I to do but think: OH NO! and wait for the weekend? When George discovered the prank, poor Little Jerry’s life was never the same. A set of twins lived next door to Little Jerry. The twins’ mother wasn’t fond of dogs, but somehow her children convinced her that a dog was just what they needed. Enter Butchie. Now Butchie wasn’t the friendliest dog in the world. One day, he attacked a neighborhood boy and bit him so badly the authorities insisted, “Butchie must be destroyed.” Well, the cleaning woman couldn’t imagine anyone destroying Butchie, so she took him to live with her. If Butchie had remained at his new home, this story probably would have a happy ending. He didn’t. Mysteriously Butchie found his way back to our neighborhood. One afternoon, DeeDee came running into our house holding her hands in front of her face. Much to my horror, all I could see was blood oozing out between her fingers. Amid her sobs, she managed to choke out, “It’s Butchie. It’s Butchie.” A quick examination revealed that Butchie had bitten DeeDee under the eye. Off we went to the doctor, who immediately called the police. I don’t know who was more upset— the twins’ mother who didn’t put Butchie down the first time he attacked a child, DeeDee who had numerous stitches, or me who insisted that the authorities hold Butchie for ten days to make sure he wasn’t rabid.

The first house George and I bought was in Tuckahoe, New York. We enjoyed having a yard and felt safe letting our children go outside and play with the other children in the neighborhood. 199

The policeman’s answer to my insistence was, “Mrs. Gaynor, even if the dog is rabid, that shouldn’t matter. Take your daughter for the rabies shots and be done with it.” I was rather horrified to think my five-year-old would be subjected to a series of painful shots that might be unnecessary. The policeman, however, wasn’t at all concerned about DeeDee’s comfort. I persisted. Eventually, the authorities agreed to keep Butchie alive for ten days. Fortunately—at least for DeeDee—Butchie didn’t have rabies. She ended up with a slight scar that faded over the years. Butchie, however, wasn’t as lucky.

Belgium 1953

espite the presence of Little Jerry and Butchie, we were happy in our cozy house in New York State. The children had playmates. George and I had friends. We liked our neighborhood. I enjoyed my activities as a homemaker. George was doing well at work. This was the fifties, and life was good. One evening during dinner, George announced, “There’s talk at Texaco of sending us to Belgium.” Immediately, I thought: Well. Never in my wildest imagination did I think I’d live anyplace but the United States. This certainly isn’t what I expected. What does this mean? What will happen to the children? What will happen to George? What will happen to me? I was quiet for a long time. After we talked it over, I realized our life would never be the same. Working for a company’s overseas division meant we’d be like military people—never exactly sure where we’d be sent. It took some getting used to, but I started thinking: Fine. I know a number of Belgian folks who live in St. Charles, and I like them. And besides that, this will be quite an experience. I’ll get used to the changes. I’ll just roll with the punches. And for what turned out to be some of the best years of my life, I did.

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I spent a good part of each day shopping for food.

By June 1953, we were packed and ready to board the ocean liner United States. As I recall, this was her second voyage, and our trip was uneventful. My most vivid memory is of the huge wardrobe trunks. Actually, they were a rather good idea. The trunks stood up straight, one side had drawers, and the other side was for hanging clothes. This meant all your things arrived in good condition. But, oh my, they sure were heavy. Unlike the suitcases of today, there is no way we could carry these trunks. We docked in Le Havre—a port city in the northwest region of France at the mouth of the Seine River. Le Havre is known for its urban coldness and gray skies, and on the day we arrived, the city certainly lived up to its reputation. From there, we drove through the rain and fog toward Brussels. As we approached Chartres, I said, “We must stop and see the cathedral.” Nobody else was interested, but I was insistent. After all, we were in Europe, and I wanted to experience the culture. I was excited, but as we drove into the city limits of Brussels, I couldn’t help but think: What are we doing here? It’s cold. It’s raining. It’s dreary. It’s foggy. What will our new life be like? I kept my thoughts to myself and got busy settling us into our pension—a kind of familyowned and operated guesthouse. DeeDee was six and Brud was four, so lodging that had a family atmosphere was better for us than a hotel. It did, however, take some getting used to. The height of the ceilings and the doors rather horrified the children, and, even worse, we didn’t have much heat. Other pension guests included mostly older Belgian folks. But there were also people from the American embassy and an army colonel who—like us—was waiting to find permanent housing. Everyone was very sweet to our family, and it didn’t take long for us to feel welcome and comfortable. At that time, there weren’t many Americans—especially American children—in Belgium, so we were sort of a novelty to the locals. I must tell you that our children were well behaved, so it was easy to like them.

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When George and I went out to dinner, one of the Belgian women who lived in the pension enjoyed taking care of DeeDee and Brud. She loved to show off “her” American children, so they’d get all dressed up and parade down to the pension’s dining room where they’d eat dinner. The first French words Brud learned were “dame blanche,” which translates to “chocolate sundae.” Once he mastered the pronunciation, he ordered a “dame blanche s’il vous plaît” for practically every meal. The Belgians thought this was great, and I have every confidence that they encouraged his antics. Each day George went off to work in his office, and my job was to find us a place we could call “home.” I learned quickly that because Belgium was just coming out of the war, it was very difficult to find housing. To my amazement, many houses didn’t have bathrooms, so of course, I eliminated them right away. Often, when the real estate agent and I arrived to look at a house, no one answered our knock, so we couldn’t get in. I thought: This is strange. We have an appointment. What’s the problem? I don’t understand. One day, after much futile searching, we drove up to a house, and I thought: This looks like a nice house. I really want to see it. But again, we couldn’t get in. I could tell someone was inside, but our knock on the door went unanswered. I was frustrated and said to the agent, “I want to see this house. Just what is the problem?” 045 As we walked back to the car, the agent explained to me, “Mrs. Gaynor, in Belgium when a couple divorces, the house becomes the husband’s property. Often, even though his ex-wife and children still live in the house, he puts it up for rent. The ex-wife realizes that if the house rents, she and her children will be out on the streets, so when someone comes to look, she pretends she isn’t home.” I was aghast and said to the real estate agent, “Please don’t take me to any more houses like that. There’s no way I’ll put a mother and her children out on the streets.” I kept looking and looking for a house to rent but couldn’t find anything suitable. Living in the pension was getting old, and I’ll admit that I was becoming discouraged. Finally, we put an ad in the paper. In a few days, I received a phone call from a young Belgian woman, who told me her rather complicated story.

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Me, Belgium, 1953

Basically, she was very wealthy, and when her grandparents discovered that her fiancé was marrying her only for her money, the wedding was called off and construction was halted on the house they were building for her. The house was just sitting there—not quite finished. I felt sorry for the young woman but was excited that maybe—just maybe—I’d found a home for my family. People kept asking me, “Why in the world do you want to live way out in the country?” I wasn’t concerned. I just wanted a nice place we could call “home.” George and I drove out to see the house and discovered that the young woman’s description was accurate. The house was just sitting there not quite finished—actually not quite finished was more than stretching

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the truth. In reality, there was a lot that needed to be done. Nonetheless, we signed the rental agreement. Our new home was interesting. It had a thatched roof, and it was, indeed, way out in the country in what was called “Champ de la Vallee.” We had electricity—of sorts. Make-shift electric cords were attached to a pole in the driveway and strung into the garage. One evening, George came home from work, slammed the garage door, and that was all it took—the electrical cords hit the ground, and we were left in the pitch dark. Eventually, that and the other unfinished projects were fixed, and our life settled into a routine. There were, however, instances that made our life, well, shall I say “interesting”? One evening after we’d lived in the house for a couple of years, I drew Brud’s bath and called him into the bathroom. As soon as his little body hit the water, he splashed around and shouted, “Ça pique! Ça pique! Ça pique!” which in French means, “It’s sticking me!” I grabbed him out of the water and thought: What in the world is his problem? I don’t see anything sticking him. Brud kept yelling. I put my hand in the water. Still nothing. Then—for some reason—I kicked off my shoes and put my hand back into the water. “Ça pique! Ça pique! Ça pique!” Now I understood. There was electricity in the water. Actually, the problem never did get solved, so that was the end of using that bathtub. I spent a good part of each day shopping for food. I’d go to one store for lamb, another store for chicken, another store for bread, another store for vegetables, another store for canned foods. Our refrigerator was small, so I had to shop every day for some things. I’d shop once a week for fresh vegetables and flowers. We did have a tiny freezer, but in those days in Belgium, freezers were unique, so grocers didn’t sell frozen foods. Everything I bought was fresh. Once a month, I’d make a list and our army friends bought us things such as peanut butter and toilet paper at the PX in Germany. The Belgian toilet paper was like corncobs or wax paper, so decent toilet paper was a real treat. I wasn’t used to the length of time it took to get things, but I learned to be patient. I had no choice. Along with caring for our children and shopping for food, my job was to keep our identity cards current. They had to be updated every six months, which was a huge chore in itself. I’d gather our four cards

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and take them to this tiny Maison Communial. I was convinced that the Belgians had built-in radar. Each time I went, an entourage came out of nowhere and followed me into the Maison. No. It wasn’t because I was a celebrity. In those days, only about ten American businessmen and their families lived in Belgium. So, especially out in the country, Americans were oddities, and the locals were curious. I remember the first Halloween we lived in Belgium. I suppose because Belgium is a Catholic country, Halloween—or what the Belgians refer to as “All Saints’ Day”—is extremely important. Here we were, Americans, thinking about ghosts and goblins and not realizing that, to the Belgians, All Saints’ Day has nothing to do with dressing up in costumes and trick-or-treating for candy. The day before All Saints’ Day a woman who worked for us asked, “Mrs. Gaynor, may I please take the children into the village tomorrow? This is a very important day for me.” I said, “Fine.” The next day off they went into the village. When DeeDee and Brud arrived home that afternoon, I asked, “Did you two have a nice time?” DeeDee smiled and said, “Oh, we had such a wonderful time.” Brud was less enthusiastic. “No!” was all he grumbled. I asked, “What did you do?” DeeDee said, “Oh! Something very important. We spent the day scrubbing tombstones.” “Scrubbing tombstones?” “Yes! It was a great day. We had so much fun. Once a year, everybody in the village goes to the cemetery and weeds and scrubs tombstones and puts flowers on graves. That’s very important, you know.” Brud wasn’t convinced that they’d accomplished something “very important,” but at least DeeDee embraced the new Halloween tradition. Not all American traditions were so easily modified. With the approach of Thanksgiving, George insisted that we have a turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. I said, “George, the Belgians don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. That’s an American tradition.” “No. No. No,” he persisted. “We must stick with our traditions, too.”

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George just wouldn’t accept my explanation. “In Belgium, they don’t fatten turkeys until Christmas.” He didn’t care. The next day off I went in search of a turkey. I looked and looked and looked. I was almost ready to give up when— stuck way back in the furthest corner of a meat counter—I spotted a rather bony turkey. This scrawny bird didn’t look so great, but it was the only turkey in town. The butcher handed me my turkey, and I dropped it into my string grocery bag, which was the same kind of bag carried by all Belgian shoppers. I brought my turkey home thinking: At least George will be happy. What I didn’t know was he’d invited a couple of Americans from Texaco for Thanksgiving dinner, and here I was with my prize-less turkey. Thanksgiving morning dawned, and I did my best to stuff my poor bird and make it look presentable. But I must tell you that this was anything but a Ladies’ Home Journal moment. I stayed in the kitchen as long as I dared, but eventually, all the food was ready. It was show time. I positioned my turkey on a platter and carried it to the table. When George spied the turkey I was about to serve to our guests, he actually gasped. A look of sheer horror crossed his face. His colleagues gave me polite, plastic smiles, but I knew what they were thinking. The breast of this skinny bird poked straight up into the air. Then it went down, down, down until at the very end there was a tiny blob of white meat—enough for everybody to have about one bite. All I could say was, “Please let me pass the mashed potatoes and gravy. Would you care for more green bean casserole?” Somehow we made it through that horrible dinner. After our guests left, I said to George, “Well, at least that’s one Thanksgiving they’ll always remember.” He just looked at me rather strangely, growled, “No comment,” and returned to his newspaper. Christmas trees are another story. Because the Christmas tree is a German tradition, and in 1953 the Belgians disliked the Germans, they wanted no part of Christmas trees. The first year we were in Belgium, I had to be content with decorating our door with pine branches tied with red ribbons. The natives thought this was a little strange, but by the second Christmas, they were a bit more accepting.

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I’m not sure if my door decorations had anything to do with the availability of Christmas trees, but I do know the second year we were in Belgium we managed to find a rather pathetic tree. It wasn’t a tree like we were accustomed to, but once it was decorated, it didn’t look too bad. The poor thing managed to hold together through Christmas Day. But that was it. Christmas evening after the children were in bed, George and I were relaxing when we heard a rather strange noise—Plop…Plop…Plop … I looked up from my book and said, “George, what in the world?” We knew the answer to my question before we took a single step into the living room. There was our tree—sadly relinquishing its last delusions of grandeur. I never saw pine needles fall off a tree so fast in my life. They just gave up. So much for our quiet evening. Our ornaments were hitting the floor almost as quickly as the pine needles. Either we rescued them, or we started over next year. In Belgium, December 6th is the day Saint Nicholas brings presents for the children. Christmas Day is a very religious day, which actually is the way it should be. New Years Day is the day the adults exchange presents. Anyway, wanting to be part of the culture, DeeDee and Brud put their shoes out for Saint Nicholas and waited. Being Saint Nicholas’s designated representative, it was my responsibility to fill the shoes with wonderful presents. In DeeDee’s shoe, I placed a big chocolate doll. In Brud’s shoe, I placed a beautiful, good-sized chocolate teddy bear. The scraped chocolate looked like fur on a real bear. I thought this was a brilliant idea and was convinced that my children would be thrilled with their gifts. They were. The next day at school, the children could hardly wait to ask their friends, “What did you get from Saint Nicholas? What did you get from Saint Nicholas? ” DeeDee and Brud explained proudly that their shoes contained pieces of sculpted chocolate. Well, they couldn’t quite understand why their friends lowered their eyes and didn’t say a word. But they brushed it off as “Belgians being Belgians” and went about their business. Days later, the Belgian mothers informed me that their children felt sorry for the poor Americans. The buzz went something like this: Compared to toys, chocolate is nothing.

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When I heard the news, I thought: Toys, huh? Okay, I’ll get toys for my children. I knew the Belgian department stores sold wonderful toys; many were made in Germany and Czechoslovakia. I planned to buy toys and give them to DeeDee and Brud on Christmas Day. However, I had a slight problem. I shopped and shopped, but there wasn’t a single toy to be found. They were completely gone. I treaded from store to store asking the same question, “Where are the toys?” Each shopkeeper gave me the same answer, “Madame, don’t you know? Saint Nicholas Day is over.” Now I’ve never been one to get things done ahead of time, but I was completely surprised that all the toys were gone. I vowed: Next year, I’ll shop early. And I did. Embracing little traditions like these broadened my family’s acceptance of people who are different from us. Is one right and one wrong? No. They’re just different. I loved raising my children in different cultures around people who spoke different languages. I’m grateful for each and every one of our experiences overseas. Ironically, when I was in college, I disliked foreign languages immensely—probably because I was such a dreadful foreign language student. I once went to my advisor at Northwestern and announced, “I don’t see any reason for me to continue with Spanish. I’m never going to leave this country.” I look back and think: How silly. Little did I know what would happen to me or what would happen with the globalization of our world. The next thing I knew, I was married, and we were starting our life overseas—a life that required me to learn foreign languages. This taught me an important lesson: Don’t say, “I’m never going to do

Because we had the opportunity to live overseas, we became more accepting of people and their ways—even when their ways were different from ours.

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DeeDee and Brud’s Belgian School, Brud is the last child on the right, circa 1955

something or the other.” No matter what script you may write for your future, you may discover that life can be a ruthless editor. DeeDee and Brud attended a little Catholic school where all the lessons were conducted in French. School started at eight o’clock in the morning, and they got home about four o’clock in the afternoon. I’d walk them there and back. On Thursdays, they were finished at noon, but they had Saturday morning classes. This was a long week for them— especially in the winter when they’d leave in the dark and come home in the dark. Years later, I learned that for Brud, school wasn’t exactly what I thought it was. Apparently, one of the nuns—the cook—took a liking to this cute little American boy, and while I thought he was getting an education, he was having a grand old time eating cookies. 075 My high school French was long forgotten. Regardless of my disdain for learning a foreign language, if I wanted to survive, I knew I had to learn conversational French. One day, I walked into the children’s school and asked the nuns to give me French lessons. After all, the nuns taught

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George and Brud, Darien, Connecticut, Christmas Day, 1959

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my children. Why shouldn’t they teach me? As the weeks passed, the nuns and I became very friendly. Here I was the only Protestant around, but they didn’t seem to care about my religious affiliation. They’d tell me their problems and ask me for advice—in French. I’d think: They’re asking thirty-year-old, English-speaking me? I still wonder what happened to those kind, gentle nuns. When I look back and think about my experiences overseas, I admit that I could have done a better job of learning the languages. Even though I managed to get by, I believe my experience would have been even richer had I been a better student of the different languages. One day, when Brud was a teenager, he said to me, “Mother, you continue to mix Italian with French. It just doesn’t work that way. I can’t understand a thing you’re saying.” Rather defensively, I thought: Oh, my word! At least I’m trying and retorted, “Well, I get what I want. Don’t I?” Yes. I got what I wanted, but I want you to know that if I had it to do over again, I’d become proficient in the native languages. Please remember this advice and apply it to your life.

Darien, Connecticut 1956

n 1956, we were sent back to the States and bought a house in Darien, Connecticut. There, we waited. Texaco officials couldn’t make up their minds where we were going next. One day, we were going to Istanbul. The next day, we were going to Ankara. I thought Istanbul would be attractive and interesting. But Ankara? I wasn’t so sure about Ankara. My brother’s friend, who had lived in Ankara, advised us, “If the decision is Ankara, turn it down—flat. If you’re not connected to the government, you absolutely should not go to Ankara. You can’t buy a thing in Ankara, and believe me your cupboards will be bare.” As the conversation continued, we learned that during the summer, the water in Ankara was turned on at two o’clock in the morning and

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I was busy being a mother and got involved with things that sort of surprised me. turned off at eight o’clock in the morning. This was your window of opportunity to take a bath and do laundry. I thought: Well, that wouldn’t be much fun—especially with children. But all we could do was wait for the bureaucracy to churn. Fortunately, the company decided to send a bachelor to Ankara. He lasted six months. Then he insisted, “Transfer me to Istanbul—right now.” I was delighted we didn’t have to make that demand. In Darien, I was busy being a mother and got involved with things that sort of surprised me. In those days, schools didn’t offer as many sports and after school activities as they do today. So children did other things—Cub Scouts being one. In our neighborhood, none of the mothers wanted to be the full-time den mother. We got together and decided an obvious solution to our problem was to take turns. I thought: Okay. I can be greatly inspired for at least one month. Everything was going along just fine until the infamous month when the Cub Scout activities included way more than learning how to read a compass. It was in the spring—sort of at the end of the year— when the den mother of the month shot her husband. Apparently, her husband wasn’t exactly faithful, so she decided to teach him a lesson he wouldn’t forget. Her first bullet lodged in his left shoulder. She wasn’t sure his education was complete, so she shot him again. This time, the bullet exploded in his hand. When I heard her story, I couldn’t help but comment, “My, you had to shoot twice? You must be a lousy shot.” The boys weren’t there, but, of course, they heard the details. With that unique merit badge, we ended the whole Cub Scout thing. 046 A highlight of Darien was the friends we made. We were fortunate to meet a wonderful group of people, many of whom became dear friends. One couple, Howard and Agnes Tuthill, had children the same ages as DeeDee and Brud. Our children became friends, and George and I developed a friendship with Howard and Agnes. Actually, Howard became George’s best friend, and to this day the Tuthills remain wonderful friends.

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Mr. Long, who was the head of Texaco, liked to take his wife to the opera. DeeDee loved the opera, and Mr. and Mrs. Long adored DeeDee. This turned out to be a win-win for everybody. Frequently during our years in Darien, Mr. Long presented me with two opera tickets, and on Saturday afternoon, DeeDee and I would join the Longs in the Texaco box. Mr. Long insisted graciously that DeeDee sit in the front seat. She’d get so involved with the music that she’d pretend to conduct the orchestra. Mr. Long thought this was wonderful, charming, enriching. In retrospect, I’m not so sure he was that interested in DeeDee’s cultural experience. Perhaps Mr. Long appreciated the diversion that saved him from Mrs. Long’s poke and admonition to “Stay awake!” Although Mr. Long’s exact interest in DeeDee’s cultural experiences is an unsolved mystery, I can tell you that George and I were very interested providing cultural enrichment for both our children. When they were young, our family did a lot of sightseeing. It was important to us that DeeDee and Brud learn about the history and culture of our adopted European countries. They loved Belgium and willingly learned a great deal about it. Brud, especially, enjoyed visiting the site of Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo. He didn’t tire of seeing the monument and walking through displays at the museum. We went so many times I think he could recite the words on the plaques by heart. I believe that DeeDee and Brud’s childhood cultural experiences are different than the cultural experiences of children who grow up in the United States. With that said, I have to laugh. Just when I thought my children were culturally sophisticated, DeeDee and I returned to Europe for a visit. One day during our years in Connecticut, DeeDee shocked me with her news. “Mother, I’m homesick for Europe.” “Homesick for Europe, dear?” “Yes. I want to visit Europe.” Well, it was summertime. Brud was getting ready to go to camp, and George had work responsibilities. George and I talked about DeeDee’s feelings, and he said, “Lal, why don’t you take DeeDee and visit Europe?” It seemed so simple. So I made plans, and off we went. Our trip over was on a funny little Italian boat named the Augustus. We docked in Genoa and went on to Florence. From there, we visited Switzerland, Paris, Belgium, and London. It was a wonderful, culturally

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rich vacation that ended by boarding the old Queen Mary for our voyage back to the States. A voyage on the old Queen Mary was a cultural experience in itself. The ship was quite elegant. Done in art deco style, she had twelve decks, a drawing room, a library, a lecture room, a music studio, and a Turkish bath. But probably most impressive was her special dining room. One evening, DeeDee and I were enjoying dinner together. The table was elegant. Ice cold champagne bubbled in my glass. I’d just spread Beluga caviar on a toast point. As I was anticipating my first bite, DeeDee said, “Mother, do you know what I liked best about our trip to Europe?” “What’s that, dear?” Of course I was expecting to hear her rave about the museums, or the people, or the architecture, or the walking tours. DeeDee looked at me matter-of-factly and announced, “The French fries.” My jaw dropped. The caviar stopped in mid-air. “The French fries?” “Yes. The French fries.” “Well, that’s interesting, dear. Why the French fries?” DeeDee proceeded to describe—in amazing detail—exactly how French fries were made in Italy, France, England, and Belgium. Then she added, “They’re by far the best in Belgium.” Suddenly, the caviar lost its appeal. We became bumpkins at a king’s table.

Belgium 1961

e never did end up in Turkey. In 1961, we moved back to Belgium. During the six months before our house was vacated, we lived in a temporary apartment. One evening, our family went out to dinner. About the time dessert was being served,

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I noticed that there was something about DeeDee that just didn’t look right. I felt her forehead. She was burning up. I said to George, “This child is very ill.” Our apartment was in an old townhouse that had been converted into apartments. The owner’s daughter lived in a room in the attic of the building. We didn’t really know each other, but I thought: I don’t care. I need help, and I need it now. So I ran upstairs and said to her, “My daughter is ill. Will you please find me a doctor?” Much to my relief, she assured me, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Gaynor. I know a very good doctor.” I thanked her and hurried downstairs to sit with DeeDee. Shortly, a man knocked on our door and introduced himself as “le médecin.” My only hope was that le médecin was competent. After the doctor examined DeeDee, he took me aside and said, “Mrs. Gaynor, I don’t know whether your daughter’s problem is with her liver or with her appendix.” I thought: Liver! Oh my goodness. No matter what was wrong with anyone in Belgium, it related to “le foie.” Belgians continually had liver trouble. I think it was caused by the rich food and abundant drinking, but that night my concern wasn’t for Belgian livers. It was for my daughter. The doctor gave DeeDee some medicine and informed me, “Tomorrow morning I want a surgeon to look at DeeDee. He’ll help me decide what we need to do.” Then he said his good-byes and closed the door behind him. George and I just looked at each other. Finally, I said, “A surgeon? Do we really want to allow our daughter to go through surgery in this country?” It was a very long night. Early the next morning—true to his word—the doctor returned with a surgeon. He was a young fellow, but our options were limited. After examining DeeDee, the surgeon said, “Mr. and Mrs. Gaynor, I cannot tell you for sure what is wrong with your daughter, but I do not think it is any great emergency. I will do some blood tests, and the results will tell me whether or not it is her appendix. Is this okay with you?” Okay? It had to be okay. The doctor drew the blood and left us alone. Again, it was a very long night. The next morning the young surgeon and the first doctor were back. The surgeon said, “DeeDee’s appendix is fine. We’ll take our time and watch whatever develops.”

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The two doctors consulted and decided that DeeDee didn’t need to be admitted to the hospital. The best treatment plan was for her to stay home where Mother—that would be me—could take care of her. Well, Mother was quickly dissolving into a nervous wreck. Nonetheless, Mother—anxiety and all—was now Nurse Gaynor. On their way out the door, the young surgeon said to me, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Gaynor. We’ll help you.” And they did. Both doctors checked on DeeDee twice a day—once in the morning and once in the evening. After about three days, the young surgeon said to me, “DeeDee is yellow. She has hepatitis.” The diagnosis was correct. DeeDee had a terrible case of hepatitis. For several weeks—twice a day—those two doctors came to our apartment and checked on her. Their instructions were clear: DeeDee had to be very careful of what she ate. She couldn’t eat common foods, but she could eat artichokes. As a matter of fact, the doctors told me that artichokes are very good for people with hepatitis. I said, “Artichokes? That’s just great. Artichokes are the one thing DeeDee refuses to eat. If the patient were her brother, he’d eat artichokes all day long, but DeeDee detests artichokes.” Well, the doctor thought he’d fix DeeDee’s aversion to artichokes and gave me a bottle of artichoke juice. I did my best to get her to swallow it, but it was a real struggle. She didn’t want anything to do with artichokes in any form. I’m not sure Nurse Gaynor’s bedside manner received a standing ovation, but, eventually, her patient did eat the artichokes. For a number of months, DeeDee was a very, very sick girl. She was diagnosed in late winter, and it was probably June before she was able to get out of bed and be around people. But the doctors didn’t give up on her or Nurse Gaynor. I remember calling the doctor at one-thirty in the morning and telling him that I was worried. Within ten minutes, he knocked on our door. The apartment didn’t make caring for DeeDee any easier. I, however, had no one to blame but myself. I’m not sure what I was thinking when I rented this apartment, but whatever it was, I didn’t consult my family. The choice was mine and mine alone. When we walked into the building, there was a foyer. Our apartment was off to the right.

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When I first looked at the apartment, I saw a refrigerator and other appliances next to the dining room. I thought this was the kitchen. It wasn’t. Of all places, the actual kitchen was in the basement—a basement that was clearly a throwback to the era of dragons and dungeons. I used a dumb waiter to transport food up and down between the kitchen and the refrigerator. We had a walled-in backyard that was a great place for our animals and a little garden. Upstairs, there was a very elaborate living room with heavy tapestries and rather gaudy gold furniture. There was a man’s dressing room with a couch that made into a bed. My plan was to make this Brud’s room. Then there was a master bedroom and bathroom. DeeDee’s room was supposed to be up two flights of stairs in the attic with the owner’s daughter. These attic bedrooms were absolutely adorable and the upstairs bath was perfect for two girls. Well, as they say, “The best laid plans…” As it turned out, DeeDee never made it to the attic bedroom. I put her in the dressing room, which was near our bedroom. Brud was rather horrified to learn that he was assigned to the ostentatious living room, and his bed was a borrowed army cot. The whole set up was less than desirable, and my family never quite let me forget that I was the one who rented this place. I guess people outside my family realized my challenges of dealing with a difficult floor plan and a sick child. About seven o’clock one morning, the doorbell rang. I thought: What in the world? I opened the door to find the milkman waiting on the porch. He said, “Good morning. Has anyone come to see you this morning?” In my best French, I replied, “Come to see me? It’s seven o’clock in the morning. No! Nobody has been here this morning.” The milkman gave me a rather sympathetic look and said, “I know you’re very busy with a sick child. So just go on—go on. I’ll wait here about five or ten more minutes.” All I could do was close the door and mutter to myself, “I can’t begin to imagine what this is all about.” Ten minutes later, the doorbell rang again. This time when I opened the door, I found the milkman standing next to a little Spanish woman, who didn’t speak a single word of French, and another woman, who turned out to be an interpreter. The milkman, who by this time was grinning like a Cheshire cat, said, “Here. Here. I’ve found someone to come in and help you with your work.”

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All I could think was: Who is this person? But not wanting to be rude, I invited them in. Through the interpreter, I learned that the Spanish woman’s name was Tina. I looked at Tina. Tina looked at me. We smiled. I thought: Well, she looks honest and trustworthy. Through the interpreter, we sort of got everything arranged, and Tina started working for me. That was the beginning of a very long relationship. Our first challenge was to learn to communicate with each other. As amazing as it may seem, I was the person who taught Tina to speak French—at least, my version of French. Her husband laughed and said to me, “It’s hard to believe. You understand Tina. Tina understands you. But no one else in the world understands what the two of you are saying to each other.” And he was correct. But it worked for us. I employed Tina practically forever. DeeDee eventually recovered fully, and our life settled into a less frantic routine. About fifteen years later—long after we had moved out of that apartment—George and I were invited by some Belgian friends to have dinner at their golf club. Shortly after we were seated, our friend left the table. Much to my surprise when he returned, he said, “Lal, there’s a doctor at that front table who wants to see you.” I thought: What in the world—a doctor in Belgium who wants to see me? But, of course, I was polite. “Okay. Fine. Please bring him over.” As the man walked toward our table, I thought: He looks vaguely familiar. How do I know him? The man, however, didn’t wonder. He smiled and said, “Mrs. Gaynor. Hello. How is DeeDee? She was one sick little girl, and for years, I’ve worried about her.” I was impressed. Back to Tina: Tina had two children—a little boy about three, and a little girl about one. Well, when her son got sick, I wanted to help, but I knew because Tina was so proud, I had to be very careful about what I did for him. After he was released from the hospital, he was skin and bones, so I convinced Tina to let me take him to the pediatrician I had used for DeeDee and Brud. The doctor told me, “This child needs to be sent to a summer camp where he can be strengthened.” All I could think was: Oh dear. Now what am I supposed to do? I went to a Belgian friend who worked for the Red Cross and asked, “Will you please intervene for me? Will you please tell Tina she must send her son to summer camp? Then tell her she doesn’t have to worry about expenses

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because the Red Cross will take care of them?” My friend agreed. Tina sent her son to camp, but she never found out that I was her benefactor. By the end of the summer, the boy was strong, healthy, and literally a different child. Years later, Tina sent him to England where he learned to speak English and graduated from medical school. Tina’s daughter had different problems. One summer, Tina sent her to Spain to live with her grandmother, and, horror of horrors, some little boy shot her through the eye with a bow and arrow. The child’s doctor telephoned me and said, “Mrs. Gaynor, you may not realize this, but because Spain has so many eye problems, the eye doctors here are excellent—probably the best in Europe. I highly recommend that Tina’s daughter remain in Spain for treatment. I don’t think we can save her sight, but we’re working on it.” Tina wanted no part of eye treatment in Spain. She insisted that her daughter return to Belgium so I could take care of her. All I could think was: Oh my word. What am I going to do about this? Even though I didn’t want the responsibility, I got busy and found an eye doctor through some Belgian friends. But wouldn’t you know it? Just after treatment started, the eye doctor was in an automobile accident, so he couldn’t work. Of course, this meant I had to locate a different doctor. Unfortunately, Tina’s daughter did lose sight in her eye, but that didn’t stop her from succeeding with what she wanted to do with her life. She went on to school, learned many languages, and became a translator. What I most remember about Tina and her children is how their situation affected DeeDee. One Christmas, I decided it was important for us to help Tina and her family to have a nice Christmas. So DeeDee and I decorated a small Christmas tree and purchased presents. With our tree and gifts in hand, we went to Tina’s home, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I was very shocked when I saw their living conditions. They lived in an area near the river in Brussels. The land was low, so everything in their house was dank. The floor was cement. The only heat in what appeared to be their only room came from a fireplace. “Dismal” is the best way to describe their home. Well, when we brought that Christmas tree into the room, I wish you could have seen the look on the children’s faces. The presents and the basket of fruit were nice, but it was the tree that made their eyes light up. Suddenly, the dreary room felt like Christmas.

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DeeDee, Her bedroom in the haunted house, 1962

When we left, DeeDee was quiet for a long time. Then she turned to me and said, “Mother, I had no idea what a difference something like this means to people.” This was DeeDee’s first lesson in charitable giving—a lesson she never forgot. We lived in our odd apartment until our house was ready. And what a house that was. It was haunted. At least, that’s what DeeDee and Brud claimed. George and I had the bedroom downstairs, and DeeDee and Brud had the bedrooms upstairs. A door led from DeeDee’s room to the attic. She’d insist, “I’m not kidding! Almost every night I hear somebody walking around in the attic.” 047 Brud confirmed DeeDee’s claims, and he had a fool-proof witness. One night, he and my gray poodle, Blissy, were tucked into bed. Brud was reading and Blissy—as usual—was asleep on the foot of his bed. Everyone in the family was in bed, and the house was quiet—except for the footsteps Brud heard coming up the stairs. He put down his book and listened. The footsteps reached the landing and started toward his room. They got closer and closer. He stopped breathing. Just before the footsteps reached his door, they

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turned across the hall to DeeDee’s room and disappeared through the door into the attic. Brud didn’t see anybody or anything. But Blissy knew somebody was out there. She perked up, raised her hackles, and let out a low growl. There. Brud had proof—our house was haunted. Well, I didn’t hear any phantom footsteps. And George certainly didn’t hear any phantom footsteps. We were complete skeptics. However, the Belgians in our neighborhood had no doubt. Their story was simple: “Your house has been haunted for years.” Apparently, this was the second house built on the property. Some unfortunate soul was murdered in the first house, but for some mysterious reason the spirit refused to leave the property—even after the new house was built. Hmmm? Perhaps our house was haunted. Ghost or no ghost, we liked the house. It wasn’t as far out in the country as our first house in Belgium, and by this time in our lives, location was an important consideration. DeeDee was in high school, and Brud was in junior high school. They were both social and appreciated the convenience of riding the tram into the city. If DeeDee had a date, I knew she’d be home by eleven-thirty—she had no choice. Because the driving age in Belgium was eighteen, she and her date had to ride the tram. The last tram left our station at eleven-forty-five, and if the boy knew what was good for him, he’d be on it. On occasion, George had to get out of bed and rescue DeeDee and her date from a late movie, but for the most part the tram made our life easy. George had a rule: No one could answer the telephone during dinner. I never figured out why he didn’t think the caller might want to talk to him. I was confident, however, that the discussion would be an exercise in futility, and it really wasn’t worth my aggravation. Anyway, we were following his rule the night President John F. Kennedy was shot. On this historic evening—November 22, 1963—the phone rang while we were eating dinner. It rang and rang and rang.

Ghost or no ghost, we liked the house.

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Finally, George was so annoyed that he relaxed his rule. DeeDee was allowed to answer, but the call was for Brud. Then Brud was allowed to answer, but the call was for DeeDee. It went on and on without any apparent reason for the multiple phone calls. After what seemed to be the opening event at a jack-in-the-box convention, Brud answered, and we could hear him talking. When he came back to the table, he sat down and sort of scratched his head. When we asked Brud what was wrong, he told us that his friend Jimmy had just informed him that everyone at the American embassy and all the military people were on alert because President Kennedy had been shot. Jimmy’s father was with the army, so Brud was sure the story was true. Nonetheless, he looked at us and said, “I don’t understand this. In the United States, we don’t shoot presidents. Do we?” We had a couple who worked for us. They’d been listening to a radio news broadcast, and when they overheard Brud’s announcement, they confirmed the story. Immediately, George got up from the table and turned on the radio, so we could listen to the news first-hand. We weren’t Kennedy supporters. Nonetheless, we were horrified to learn that the President of the United States of America had been shot and killed. In the days that followed, we listened to the drama unfold. I think that because we were so far away and the broadcasts were factual, we didn’t experience any great feelings of alarm or panic. Maybe it was the way in which the events were broadcast overseas, but we were quite objective. I believe our experience was different from the experience of people in the United States who were barraged with personal story after personal story and got caught up in the emotions of the situation. I did, however, find it interesting to observe the reaction of the Belgian people. Even though we didn’t know our neighbors very well, they came to our house with flowers and notes of sympathy. I was amazed and touched when I realized that they felt sorry for us. I’ve never been involved actively with politics, but I do have my opinions. For many years when we were overseas, there was no such thing as an absentee ballot. We had to pay taxes to the United States government on the dividends from our investments. But—and that’s a big but—because we lived in a foreign country, we couldn’t vote.

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Actually, for a while, George was double-taxed. He had to pay taxes to both the Belgian government and the United States government. At that time, I was vocal about my beliefs. Although I didn’t do anything formal, I expressed my opinion to people who were connected to the U.S. government. “Taxation without representation is wrong. After all, this was the primary grievance of the American colonists who settled our thirteen original colonies. They believed that taxing people without giving those same people a voice in how they are treated is tyranny.” As more and more Americans started living overseas, the law changed. People were allowed to vote as citizens of their last state of residence. This meant we could vote as citizens of Connecticut, but our attorney advised us to forget it and continue without representation. He told us, “Yes. You may vote. If you do, however, you must pay taxes to the state of Connecticut.” I thought this was unfair, so we took his advice and didn’t vote. This was a difficult decision for me. I believe—as an American citizen—it is my responsibility to vote. When we lived in Connecticut, I was registered as an Independent. When we returned to the States and lived in Florida, I again registered as an Independent. However, Independents didn’t have many candidate choices, so George and my father convinced me to register as a Republican. My main political concern is that candidates and people who are already in office be honest. Of course, I’m adamantly against taxation. I believe that capital gains taxes are wrong. I believe that if a person has been smart enough—or lucky enough—to make great gains, it isn’t right to have to pay for these gains. Right now—in 2008—the capital gains tax isn’t too bad. But for many, many years, it was very high, and I’m afraid it will be high again. As for social platforms, I don’t always side with the Republicans. For example, I don’t believe abortion should be a political issue. Anyway, back to Belgium and the haunted house. We were in that house for two years. Then the owners—a general and his wife, who were returning to Belgium—wanted their house back. We’d done a lot of work on the house, so this news was a low-blow. However, it was their house, so we didn’t have a choice and made arrangements to move. When renters in Belgium move from one rental to another, an étalier

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There are many highlights of our life in Europe, but if I had to select a single one, it would be the friends we made.

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examines the property. If the étalier determines that there’s a problem, the renters are required to pay to fix it. This particular house had four small bathrooms. One bathroom that we used only for DeeDee and Brud’s guests had a hole in the wall and a crack in the tub. On occasion, I’d think: Maybe we should fix this bathroom. But it was sort of out-of-sight-out-of-mind, so I didn’t pay much attention. Well, after the étalier finished looking around, he informed me that we had to pay to have this bathroom repaired. I, of course, said, “No! We’re not paying. We didn’t do this damage. That’s how the bathroom was when we moved in.” Unfortunately, the étalier didn’t agree. He made a big fuss, so reluctantly George wrote the check, and we forgot about it—or so I thought. I was amazed at how we were treated. I thought because of all the improvements we’d made, the owners would be nice to us. Shortly after we moved in, I decided to clean the oven. Somehow the étalier failed to notice the oven was terribly dirty when we moved in. But I thought: Oh well. I’ll get it nice and clean and proceeded with my task. Much to my horror, when I re-lit the oven, flames shot out and filled the kitchen. I managed to turn off the gas and get someone to come to the house and check out the problem. I was told, “Mrs. Gaynor, the pipes in this oven are full of holes. When you cleaned out the crud, you opened all the holes. There is no way you can use this oven.” We decided the oven wasn’t worth repairing, so we bought a new one. Also, when the fuel tank sprung a leak, we bought a brand-new fuel tank. But none of this seemed to matter. We still had to pay for the bathroom. Years later, George and I met a couple who had rented the same house. As we shared stories, the woman said to me, “By the way, when you left did the étalier make you pay for a crack in the tub and a hole in the bathroom wall?” What could I do but laugh? I do wonder, however, just how many tubs the owners could buy with their “damage” checks. There are many highlights of our life in Europe, but if I had to select a single one, it would be the friends we made. Because of George’s

position with Texaco, he had the opportunity to get to know numerous ambassadors—particularly the ambassadors to Belgium. I especially remember Ambassador McArthur, who was the nephew of General McArthur, and his wife, who everybody called “Wowie.” Over the years, Ambassador McArthur and Wowie became very good friends of ours. Each Memorial Day, they’d invite us to visit an American cemetery in Belgium. I was amazed at the number of cemeteries we saw. The weather was always cold and dreary, and it usually rained. But that was to be expected—Belgium was Belgium. It was the rows and rows of little white crosses and the immaculate condition of the cemeteries that I didn’t expect. They left a lifetime impression. I still sit and think about how beautifully the Belgians maintained our cemeteries. As the McArthurs got to know our family better, they recognized DeeDee’s artistic talents and commissioned her to paint Wowie’s portrait. DeeDee was a nervous wreck, but she did it. And most importantly, Wowie was dear enough to say, “This is absolutely wonderful.” I agreed. Even though I’ve always been interested in the environment, I didn’t get involved with environmental causes when I was overseas. At one point, I decided I wanted to work with children, so I went into a childcare facility and offered my services. “I’d love to volunteer,” was what I said. Regardless of my good intentions, I thought they might tar and feather me. “Why is it that you want to take a job away from a native?” In another instance, I sent Brud out in the neighborhood to mow lawns. In my mind, he was old enough to work and earn his spending money. I was surprised when the Belgian women questioned me— accusingly. “Why is your son mowing our lawns?” “It’s good for him. He’s old enough to work and earn his allowance. I’d rather have him mow lawns than just sit around.” It didn’t take long for me to get the message. I was told in no uncertain terms, “In the Belgian culture, Americans don’t do that.” Brud retired his lawnmower. He was happy. I stayed home. I was disappointed. After we vacated our house, we rented another apartment. George was in the States on business, and he had DeeDee with him. Brud was in school in Switzerland. This left only one person from the Gaynor family

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in Belgium. Yes. The move was up to me and me alone. Fortunately—by that time—I was good friends with people from the moving company. When I think about it, I do believe the movers wanted to protect me. As they were moving our furniture into the living room of the new apartment, one of them put down a chair and stopped working. Of course, I wondered what was wrong. He looked at me sort of strangely—as if he were deciding what he should do—and finally said, “Mrs. Gaynor, I want to ask you a question. Did the owner say anything to you about the heel marks on this parquet floor?” “No. I don’t think so.” “Well, you’d better ask him to make a note. If you don’t, you’ll be charged for the damage.” I thought: Damage? I didn’t do any damage. It was clear to me that the person who made the heel marks on the floor must have been wearing stiletto heels. I didn’t even own heels that high. And besides that, I didn’t exactly get dressed up to move—tennis shoes were the extent of my fashion statement. Nonetheless, the mover’s prediction was correct. The owners accused me and my tennis shoes of damaging their floor. I guess they thought I was jumping up and down instead of unpacking boxes. Getting this resolved was a real nuisance, but eventually I convinced them I wasn’t the one who damaged their floor. Finally, George returned and life settled into a pattern. I still laugh about the so called “dinner parties” we had in this apartment. George didn’t hesitate to walk in the door at six o’clock with people from the company right behind him and announce, “Lal, we have dinner guests.” I’d smile and welcome our guests, but inside I’d be thinking: Great. Just great. How does he expect me to feed everyone with only two lamb chops? We’d sit down to dinner, and the guests would stare at my plate. “Lal, you’re having a hard-boiled egg?” “Oh, yes. I love eggs.” Another one of his tricks was to show up with guests on nights I’d made meatloaf or something equally unglamorous. Fortunately, the guests were usually Americans, and we’d laugh about the menu.

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Trevi Fountain in Rome, Left to right: Me, my friend Lorene, Loreneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s daughter, circa 1965

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Rome 1964

n about 1964, we moved to Rome and rented a lovely villa called “Villa del Olivo,” which was off the Appian Way. I’ve always been interested in history and was fascinated to learn that the Appian Way—Via Appia—was constructed around 312 BC under emperor Appius Claudius Caecus by soldiers, prisoners of war, and slaves. It was about 560 kilometers in length and built from stone. Many years later, the Romans also built the world’s first dual carriage way—Via Portuensis—that ran between Rome and its Port Ostia at the mouth of the Tiber. The Roman road network covered most of the conquered provinces, with Rome being the focal point. Thus, the saying, “All roads lead to Rome.” 049 Our villa was in a compound—sort of a walled space that surrounded three villas. This is a very common building structure in Rome. The compound had a swimming pool and a tennis court, which added to its appeal. Plus, because Brud was close by attending the Saint Stevens School in Rome, we thought this was a wonderful location. The compound on the other side of our road was where Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton lived during the time they were filming Cleopatra. We ended up making lots of friends in the neighborhood, but getting settled taxed my usual good humor. When we first looked at this villa, the owners, Signore and Signora Poppaleo, still lived there. I thought the Poppaleos were rather strange, but the villa was nice, so we decided to go ahead with the rental, signed the lease, and waited—and waited some more. On what we thought was moving day, George received a phone call from the rather frantic mover. “Mr. Gaynor, I have two huge moving vans that came all the way from Brussels sitting in the driveway of your new villa, but the owners haven’t moved out. What do you want me to do?” I suggested, “I don’t much like the Poppaleos. Maybe we should cancel the whole thing.”

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But George said, “No. No. No. We’ll wait.” Again, we waited. At the time, waiting was a big deal, but in retrospect, it was the least of our problems. A week later, we moved in. As we were getting settled, I noticed a problem with the telephone. It hadn’t been switched over for our use. We were instructed to pick up the receiver, dial zero, and wait for someone from the Poppaleo’s household to answer. Then, evidently, they’d connect us to an outside line. I thought: My. My. This is a strange way to use a telephone. But, supposedly, the arrangement was only for a week. George said, “We’ll be fine. We’ll be fine,” and went about his business. Two weeks passed—no telephone. My Italian wasn’t fluent enough to speak with a local, so every time I picked up the phone, George was the only person I could call. This was getting old—fast. To make matters worse, the phone was continually busy. When George came home in the evening, I’d be annoyed to death. He’d say, “It’s okay. It will get fixed,” and, again, go about his business. I’d think: Well, it’s not you trying to use the telephone. More time went by—still no telephone. One evening, George had to meet someone at the airport. He came home from the office, we ate a quick bite of dinner, and he tried to telephone the airline to see if the plane was on time. It was no surprise to me that he couldn’t get through. The line was busy. After two hours of a busy signal, he was furious. He stormed around and mumbled, “This can’t be! This can’t be!” My, “This is what I’ve been trying to tell you,” comment was less than appreciated. But wouldn’t you know it? The very next day the telephone was fixed. Before we moved in, the Poppaleos tried to convince us to hook up to a common electric meter. But George said, “No. No. No. We must have our own electric meter.” So every month, he gave Signore Poppaleo a check for our electrical usage, and Signore Poppaleo passed the payment on to the electric company—or so we thought. One day, after we’d lived in the villa for several months, George was leaving for work when he noticed the electric company’s truck parked outside our villa. There was a man tinkering around with the meters. George said to Alberto, the company chauffeur, “Please find out why the electric company is here.”

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Alberto spoke to the truck driver and got back in the car. “Signore Gaynor, Signore Poppaleo hasn’t paid the bill. They’re cutting off your electricity.” “What do you mean the bill hasn’t been paid? I’ve paid Signore Poppaleo every month. Tell them they can’t cut off our electricity.” Alberto went back to the truck and got back in the car. “Signore Gaynor, I’m sorry, but they haven’t received any money. Your electricity is being cut off.” “What? Tell them they can’t cut off our electricity. I have paid our bill.” Alberto went back to the truck and got back in the car. “Signore Gaynor, I’m sorry, but they haven’t…” George said, “Let’s go.” As soon as George arrived at the office, he wrote a check for the entire amount of our electric bill and the electric bills for the two Poppaleo families and rushed it over to the electric company. But it was too late. The switch had been flipped to OFF. And who do you think was without electricity? I had no power and because we were on a well, no water. If we wanted our money returned—and we did—we were told that we must hire a lawyer and have him figure out how to deduct it from our rent. Now, we had another problem: Even after dealing with the intricacies of the Italian legal system, we weren’t sure our bill was being paid. The saga continued. It gets cold in Italy. One night, I was all cozy in bed, reading my book, when water squirted from clear across the room and hit me right in the middle of my forehead. I screamed. George came running. “What in the world?” “There’s something wrong with the radiator.” George did his best to get the radiator turned off, but it seemed to have a mind of its own—Hiss…Squirt…Hiss…Squirt… and on and on. Finally, he telephoned Signore Poppaleo and learned how to stop the water. I was happy that we no longer had a waterspout in our bedroom. I wasn’t happy that we were without heat until a repairman found time to fix the problem. Then there was the ill-fated table episode. Before we moved in, Signora Poppalao asked us, “Is there any furniture in the villa that you’d like to use?”

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I didn’t see anything and responded politely, “No thank you. What we have is…” George interrupted with, “Let’s keep this writing table.” The house had a rather strange arrangement, but George had identified one room that he thought would make a good office. Unbeknown to me, he’d decided the table was a perfect place for all his paperwork. I looked at George and said, “No. We really don’t need the table.” George glared at me and insisted, “Yes. We want the table.” As I saw it, keeping the table only meant trouble, but decided I didn’t want to argue with George in front of the Poppaleos. So this table that Signora Poppaleo identified as, “A very valuable table belonging to former King Umberto, who was the last king of Italy,” became our responsibility. After we left the villa, George asked me, “Lal, why in the world were you making such a big deal about this table?” I said, “Just think about it. Brud’s friends have Weimaraners and Labradors. But all he has to follow him around are my two puffy poodles. He’s tired of them. Besides that, you promised Brud that as soon as we moved into this villa, he could get a German Shepherd puppy.” “Yes. So?” “So—look at this table. Its legs are carved into Whippets’s curly tails. They’re a tempting teething target for a puppy.” George said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Lal. Why would you even think of such a thing?” The answer was obvious. “If I were a puppy, that’s exactly what I’d cut my teeth on.” But the discussion was over. We did get the table. Gus, the German Shepherd puppy did teethe on its legs. The Whippets’ curly tails did disappear. With Italy being Italy, however, I was able to find an artist who carved new tails, and the Poppaleos never knew the difference. 048

Nothing in that villa seemed to work. 231

George and Me with Gus, the chewing puppy, and Blissy, the ghost hunter, circa 1966

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Even though nothing in that villa seemed to work, the story does have a humorous ending. Before we moved in, Signora Poppaleo showed me a little figurine and said, “You know, I really don’t like dealing with Americans. The last Americans who lived in my villa didn’t take care of anything. Their child broke my valuable figurine.” I said, “Well, if your figurine is so valuable, why did you leave it out?” What I didn’t say was that Charlton Heston and his wife—the last Americans to live in her villa—were my friends. Years later, I attended a Northwestern function and had dinner with Chuck and Lydia Heston. As we caught up on our news, I said, “Chuck, I think I know someone you know. Have you ever met the Poppaleos in Rome?” I thought he was going to come right out of his chair. “Lal, we rented their villa when I was filming Ben Hur. It’s the most horrible experience I’ve had in my entire life.” Over shared laughter, we forgot the disasters of the Poppaleos and their villa. There’s no doubt in my mind—laughter is the best medicine. The contentious villa wasn’t the only thing that occupied my time in Rome. I joined the American Women’s Club, but as it turned out I didn’t have time to go to business meetings. Instead, my friends talked me into taking club-sponsored painting lessons. After a number of futile attempts, I decided I was never going to be a painter but learned that through the club I could take sculpting lessons. I thought: Sculpting. Now that would be fun and signed up for my lessons. The teacher was Helen Zalenski—Aunt Helen—who in her day had been a famous sculptress. When I first started working with Aunt Helen, she was about ninety-six but was still a wonderful sculptress and a wonderful teacher. My first day in class, she gave me a lump of clay, and I thought: Just watch me. This is just the beginning. I’m going to create all sorts of beautiful things. About forty-five minutes went by. Aunt Helen walked over to my station and looked at me questioningly. “Well?” Here I was—still just patting my lump of clay. My inspiration meter registered zero. I sort of fiddled around, but my fiddling was less than awesome. As time passed, my fiddles didn’t get any better. Nonetheless, I decided I liked Aunt Helen, and I liked her classes.

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Proof of my “no talent” sculpting

Aunt Helen held two classes that were completely separate from her class at the American Women’s Club. I thought: Why not? and signed up to take sculpting three days a week. The classes that weren’t taught through the American Women’s Club were especially fascinating to me. They weren’t large, but people from all nationalities attended these classes. I met Germans, Italians, Frenchmen, and Slovakians. What truly amazed me was the way Aunt Helen interacted with everyone. She’d go from one person to the next to the next, and regardless of their country of origin, she’d speak their language fluently. I was impressed to learn that she spoke, read, and wrote seven languages. As I watched this incredible woman, my admiration and respect grew. During one of DeeDee’s visits, I asked Aunt Helen if I could bring my daughter to class. She said, “Of course. I’d love to work with her.” DeeDee attended class with me and during subsequent visits, she attended additional classes. Aunt Helen enjoyed DeeDee and praised her work. This, of course, made me proud of my daughter. I worked with Aunt Helen about four years. I’ll always remember the day I told her I was leaving Rome. She sat down beside me, took my hand, and wiped tears from her eyes. She said, “You know, my dear, at

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my age, I’ve worked with many, many students, but I can count on one hand the students I’m truly fond of. You’re one of them.” I felt great and thought: I’m sure that’s because I sculpt so beautifully. I could hardly wait to hear Aunt Helen praise my talents. She patted my hand, and I thought: Here it comes. Then she spoke. “You are such a dear student, and I’m so fond of you. But, my dear, unlike your daughter, you have absolutely no talent.” In a millisecond, my ego tumbled off the top of the world and splattered in the dust. I was more than flattered to know that Aunt Helen considered me to be one of her dearest students. But what about my talent? Eventually, I recovered and resigned myself—I wasn’t intended to be the world’s next Michelangelo. 050 Oh well. Life goes on.

Rome 1965

e had signed a three-year lease on the Poppaleo’s house, but fortunately—for us anyway—we caught them on tax evasion and got out of the lease in just under a year. The second house we rented in Rome was an old farmhouse on the Via Trabazzia, which was off the old Appian Way not too far from the tomb of Cecilia Matella. The house was at the end of a long dirt road, and the yard was completely enclosed with wire fencing and a Roman wall. Interestingly, the house had been rented by the Walton family—a family that was part of the Gulf Oil Mellon family. When they found out they were being transferred, they told us that if we were interested in the house, they’d give us first choice. Interested? Yes we were interested— actually, we were thrilled and could hardly wait to move in. The house was smaller but more charming than our villa. We thought it was adorable. It had a living room and a dining room and four wonderful upstairs bedrooms. Everything about it was nice and big and airy. When I opened the windows, a fresh breeze blew through the

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rooms. In those days, nothing was air conditioned, but we didn’t miss it. We were pleased to discover that the area was abundant with old Roman statuary and tombs. Each time we’d dig in our garden, we’d turn up old Roman coins and concluded that we were living on top of one of the original Roman burial grounds. Of course, with my interest in different cultures, this fascinated me. We loved the house, but there was one slight problem. Originally, the house didn’t have central heat, so the Waltons installed a very small furnace. The problem was the fuel oil tank that fed the furnace was also very small. Once the weather turned cold, we received a fuel oil delivery each week. Because George was just getting Texaco started in Rome, Texaco didn’t have the capacity to deliver oil on a regular basis. We arranged to have Gulf Oil deliver our oil, and they came faithfully, so I didn’t anticipate any problems. Well, one afternoon, I arrived home to discover the Gulf Oil truck driver just finishing his delivery. He greeted me politely and said, “Oh, Signora, this is so difficult for you. Each week you must call me to come and pump oil for you. This week, I solve your problem and give you a lot more oil.” His insinuation was clear: Your husband is a stingy man. My Italian wasn’t good enough to explain the real issue, so I decided to ignore his implied accusation and go about my business of the weekly oil deliveries. I was, however, curious. “Thank you. That’s nice of you. But will you please tell me where you put the oil?” He looked at me rather startled. It was obvious to him that I was an uninformed American. “I just kept pumping.”

The fuel oil truck driver was nice enough, but I couldn’t help but shake my head and think: How ironic. Here I am— heiress to the Texaco fortune, and I can’t even get a decent delivery of fuel oil.

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“Kept pumping? Where?” “Where? In here.” With that, he opened the door to the fence that encased the fuel tank. I gasped—fuel oil was pooled everywhere. The driver looked at me rather sheepishly. “I guess I’m supposed to come every week?” “Yes, please.” As the driver sopped up his mess with straw, I headed into the house. He was nice enough, but I couldn’t help but shake my head and think: How ironic. Here I am—heiress to the Texaco fortune, and I can’t even get a decent delivery of fuel oil.

Home Leave 1968

e were in that house about four years. Although many strange things happened to us, I look back fondly at all our good times. In 1968, it was time for our required home leave. We flew into Miami, and from there went on to Haiti where we had a lovely visit with George’s sister. When we returned to the Miami airport, George said, “Let’s drive to Naples and see Glen Sample.” I knew Glen was starting to develop Port Royal and to be honest, had no interest in his real estate ventures. I asked, “Why in the world do we want to see Glen Sample?” George answered nonchalantly, “Well, why not? Let’s just drive to Naples and take him out to lunch. We can see how he is. You know—just chitchat and catch up.” Innocently, I agreed. Our lunch and chitchat were followed by a tour of Port Royal, which at the time was basically a road lined with a few trees and bordered with vacant lots covered with sand. Glen showed us numerous pieces of property and touted the wonders of Port Royal. I had absolutely no interest and kept asking, “George, why are we looking at all of this?”

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I consoled myself by thinking: Okay. Lots are one thing. But I have no intention of building on them. He’d just smile and avoid a direct answer. “We’ll just keep looking.” I knew he was up to something. It was time to express my opinion before it was too late. I fumed, “I don’t want a piece of property where I’m looking across the water at somebody else’s backyard.” George and Glen exchanged looks. Glen turned the car around and headed toward Admiralty Parade. Somehow, before we returned overseas, we owned two and onehalf lots on Admiralty Parade. I consoled myself by thinking: Okay. Lots are one thing. But I have no intention of building on them.

Belgium 1970

fter returning to Belgium, we lived in a farmhouse out in the country between two little villages, which the Belgians called “municipalities.” Actually, we were close to the Waterloo Monument where we’d lived the first time we were in Belgium. DeeDee loved to visit because each morning, she’d walk to this wonderful bakery in Ohain and bring home hot croissants. I, too, loved this bakery. I’d drive my little car into the village, stop at the bakery, and return home with not one, but four or five loaves of fresh-from-the-oven bread. They were so hot I’d have to wait to slice them. I still remember the delightful, yeasty aroma that filled my car. We lived in this house during the fuel shortage of the 1970s. At the time, everyone had difficulty getting fuel oil for heat or gasoline for automobiles. The Belgians had a unique, no-questions-asked way of

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dealing with the shortage. On Sunday, people weren’t allowed to drive their cars. That was the rule, and everyone followed it. One Sunday morning, George and I woke up to a world blanketed with snow. I looked out the window, turned back to George, and said, “Let’s walk into the village and go to the bakery.” He agreed. We bundled up and headed out into a perfect picture postcard winter wonderland. On our way back from the village, we were amazed at the silence. Not a horn honked. Not a car door slammed. Not an engine rumbled. Not a bird twittered. Nothing. Absolute eerie stillness. Finally, George took my hand and said, “Lal, do you have the feeling we’re the last two people left on Earth?” The last summer we lived in this house, Belgium experienced a terrible drought. There was such a water shortage all over Belgium that no one was allowed to water lawns for any reason. In fact, a helicopter flew over the country looking for green lawns. If the crew spotted a green lawn, a policeman was dispatched to the house to ensure that the owners were watering from their own well and not using city water. Water consumption was monitored, and you’d be slapped with a huge fine if you used too much. If you continued to use too much, your water would be shut off. Boom. Done. That was it. No water. The Belgians didn’t fool around. During the first years we were overseas, we took a home leave every three years. Later, the company wanted us to return to the States every year. George went regularly, but I didn’t always accompany him. I do, however, remember the year of the Irish disaster. George made up his mind it was time to visit Ireland—the land of his ancestors. We talked about it and decided this would be lots of fun and a perfect place to stop-over and enjoy a few days on our way home, so we made our travel plans. The travel guides were appealing, and as the trip approached we were excited. We both fully expected to like Ireland. Sometimes, however, expectations remain just expectations. Nothing, and I mean nothing, about Ireland appealed to either of us. One evening, after dinner, we walked through the streets of Dublin. As we stumbled over cobblestones, George grumbled, “Did you ever see anything as awful as so many Irish in one spot?” I thought: I’m sure happy that George, the Irishman, said it and kept on walking.

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At Christmastime, we took the children skiing. Neither George nor I were good skiers, but our children love to ski, so during their Christmas vacation, we all went skiing in Switzerland. One year we met a wonderful family from South Africa. Each year after, the entire family looked forward to spending the Christmas holiday with them. Their company made our ski trip even more fun and our holiday even more festive. I’m fortunate to have experienced many countries and many cultures. People might think I’m crazy, but oddly enough—other than Naples, Florida—Belgium is my favorite spot in the world. I even liked Belgium’s weather. It wasn’t too hot. It wasn’t too cold. In the summertime, the average temperature was in the 70s. Granted, there was lots of rain, but that didn’t bother me. I especially liked the Belgian people. My Belgium memories are of good times—happy times—and that’s why I love Belgium.

People might think I’m crazy, but oddly enough—other than Naples, Florida—Belgium is my favorite spot in the world.

Port Royal—Admiralty Parade 1976

e lived between our little Belgian villages until about 1976. By then George had retired, and on the global front, the U.S. dollar was weak. As much as we loved living overseas, it was time to return to the United States—to return home. But we had questions—important questions. Where should we go? Do we go back to New York? Do we want to live in DC? Do we return to Chicago? Do we make a life in Florida? Just where is home?

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None of the northern options appealed to us. The only answer seemed to be Admiralty Parade in Port Royal, Florida. During a home leave, we had contacted an architect, and he started drawing plans for a house on Admiralty Parade. George was smart. He pretty much left the design up to me. I guess he thought: Well, if I’m going to get her to live here, I’ll let her take care of the plans. And he was correct. With some input from George, I’d spent a number of years working with the architect. Our work was done from a distance, but the architect and I communicated well. I remember telling the architect, “I don’t want a house that is just plunked on top of the property. It must fit the land.” I also insisted on a wonderful view of Admiralty Bay and Key Island. We saw nothing but the marvelous mangroves and majestic Australian pine trees. And the birds were wonderful. Oh, there were so many birds—birds of all kinds including eagles. Unfortunately, today with all the noisy boat traffic, no self-respecting bird would live there, but back then the birds were abundant. The architect and I had good rapport. He listened to me, and I was confident he understood what I wanted. The house was probably a bit longer than I preferred, but by the time we moved in, I had to admit that both the architect and the builder did a good job. We were living in this house when I realized that sometimes life knocks at your back door. Unexpectedly, through what at first appears to be an unfortunate circumstance, you learn a valuable lesson. In 1985— when I was in my early sixties—I had a stroke that literally changed the way I view the world. One afternoon, my daughter-in-law Nancy and I were having a pleasant phone conversation. Suddenly, a terrible, terrible headache hit me. I felt as if my head were going to explode, but I had no idea where this came from or what was happening. I remember thinking: I’m going to pass out. I don’t want to faint while I’m talking to Nancy. She’s way off in Chicago. There’s nothing she can do. I don’t want her to worry. Almost in mid-sentence I said, “Good-bye. We’ll talk again soon,” and hung up. Later, Nancy told me she wondered why I ended our pleasant conversation so abruptly. At the time, I didn’t care. All I wanted to do was stretch out across my bed and hold my head. The pain was dreadful—probably the most intense pain I’d experienced in my entire life.

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Our German Shepherd licked my face over and over. He whimpered. It was as if he were thinking: Mom, what’s wrong? Why are you in bed in the middle of the day? I knew he was there, and I felt comforted, but I couldn’t reach out and scratch his head as I usually did. I couldn’t open my eyes. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t do anything but lie on my bed and hold my pounding head. Finally, I heard the back door open and knew George was home from the golf course. He called, “Lal, Lal, where are you?” But I couldn’t answer. Our German Shepherd and Yorkshire Terrier barked at George as if to say, Come on. Hurry up. Follow us. We’ll show you where Mom is. They led George to the bedroom. As soon as George saw me, he knew something was terribly wrong. He kept asking me questions. I could hear everything he said, but I couldn’t speak a single word.

Sometimes life knocks at your back door.

In his frenzy, George tried calling the offices of every doctor he knew. It was Saturday afternoon, so of course, they were all closed. The only response he received was a recorded message giving him the normal office hours. Nonetheless, he continued dialing…and dialing…and dialing. I kept thinking: George, for heaven’s sake, will you just call 911 and get me some help? But no. He persisted in dialing—futilely. The next thing I knew, George was dialing our next-door neighbor, Dottie Perdon. I wanted to scream at him, but all I could do was think: Oh, no! Why in the world are you calling little Dottie Perdon? Just what do you think she’s going to do? By then I was absolutely horrified. Dottie came running over immediately. I vaguely remember her holding my hand and patting me. Her first words were, “George, get on that phone and dial 911—right now.” Through my pain, I thought: Well, thank heavens he did call Dottie. At least she has some sense. From there, time stood still. I have no recollection of how long it took the paramedics to arrive, but I do remember being thankful when I realized they were in the room. A quick check and they knew exactly

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what was wrong. The word “stroke” penetrated my fog. The paramedics lifted me onto a gurney and wheeled me out of our bedroom into an ambulance. Thankfully, I was on my way to the hospital. I’ll never forget lying on the stretcher in the ambulance and feeling every bump in the road. It was as if the ambulance had been stripped of its entire shock system. My arms were crossed over my chest, and my eyes were closed. I was trying, unsuccessfully, to block out the intense pain. I couldn’t talk, but I could hear exactly what everyone was saying. Between bumps, one paramedic said to the other, “You’d better hold that back door. The latch doesn’t work too well. We sure don’t want to lose this one out on the street.” I had visions of myself lying in the middle of the street, and as strange as it may be, this struck me as funny. I couldn’t make even the tiniest noise, but on the inside I was roaring with laughter. My mind wouldn’t give it up. I kept thinking: Wouldn’t that be a riot if I rolled out into the street? Just what would they do then? I’m not sure about the exact sequence of events. I think I was treated in the ER, and the nurses were getting me ready to go upstairs to my room when Joann arrived. I do know they were taking an inventory of my personal belongings and handed my watch and wedding ring to my sister. The nurse who was making the list said, “Shoes? I don’t see any shoes.” My sister didn’t miss a beat. She said, “Oh, I’m sure she wasn’t wearing shoes. But I can almost guarantee you she’s wearing a lace petticoat.” After I’d stabilized a bit, Joann asked me, “Do you remember what I said about your petticoat?” I replied, “I sure do. I could hear every word—thank you very much.” That’s why people must be very careful around stroke victims. They can hear, but they can’t respond. I must tell you that I feel for people who have strokes. I know from first-hand experience what it’s like. You’re cognizant of everything, but you can’t participate in anything. I felt as though I were trapped inside a box and couldn’t get out. Slowly, my speech started to come back. But the problem was I’d get into situations where I couldn’t find the right word. I’d have to stop and think: Just what am I trying to say? Even when I was talking about

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a subject I knew well, a word wouldn’t come to me. Or—even more strangely—I’d say a word that had absolutely nothing to do with the subject being discussed. I’d open my eyes wide and wonder: Now, where in the world did that come from? This startled me as much as the person with whom I was speaking. All we could do was to look at each other and laugh. For some reason I didn’t have physical therapy. So I decided: Okay. If I’m not going to get any help, I’ll get over this by myself. Before my stroke, I’d enjoyed riding my bicycle about six miles every morning. I had the feeling that if I got back on my bike, I’d recover. At first, I was a little teetery, so I only rode for short distances. But once I got my balance, I rode further and further. I’m convinced that riding my bike was what helped me to recover. My mind still doesn’t work as quickly as it once did. At times, my speech is a little slower, and, at times, I stutter a bit. It seems that ideas don’t flow as easily as they once did. Naturally, that’s a bit frustrating. But, now, I laugh and blame it on my age. Before my stroke, I zoomed through life, often missing what was going on around me. When I look back at my experience, I realize it was a blessing in disguise. It made me realize how important it is to enjoy every minute of life. And I do. George and I were happy in our home on Admiralty Parade. I look back on our memories and think: How wonderful. Then in about 1998, George was diagnosed with myelodysplasia. This meant his bone marrow didn’t make red blood cells. For a number of years, he received injections that helped, but when they no longer worked, he lived on blood transfusions. Eventually, he suffered from congestive heart failure and—because not enough blood reached his brain—dementia. Finally, I decided I needed help. I started looking around for nurse caregivers and was fortunate to find a number of women who were absolute gems. They knew just how to manage George. One nurse established a travel day. She’d lead George to the car, and off they’d go. At the end of the day, George returned from the Ringling Museum in Sarasota, or Busch Gardens in Tampa, or the zoo in Miami, or the Botanical Garden, or the aquarium as a much happier man. Bless her heart. She’d take him anywhere. I’m convinced George’s nurses extended his life at least four years.

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Best Friends, George, Me, Bijou at home, Admiralty Parade, 1977

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I’d sit and think about how fortunate I was. Often, George told me, “Lal, I don’t want to die in a nursing home. I want to die in my own home.” I’m lucky we had the resources to grant him his wish. Men and women who must take care of ill spouses alone are true saints. I don’t know how they do it, but I do know they have my greatest respect and admiration. George died on July 9, 2003. After his death, I knew I needed to keep busy. I have wonderful, wonderful friends in Naples, but, suddenly, when I was by myself, I felt as if I might be intruding on their time. A few friends stuck by me, but then they got older, so they weren’t able to get around. Or—in some instances— friends moved away. But some friends were rocks. The friends at then-International College were solid. They never changed. They were always wonderful. No matter what I needed, they were there for me. Their support means more than I can tell you. I can’t say religion as such helped me deal with George’s death. I’m happy I was able to fulfill his wishes. After George died, I’d sit and think: Well, he’s feeling better now. Everything will be better for him. During his last years, George had a fairly good quality of life, but it wasn’t a life he would have wanted. Had he fully recognized his condition, he would have been most unhappy. I knew George well. I knew how he wanted to live. I wasn’t sad for him that he died when he did. Our marriage was interesting—the places we lived, the friends we made, the experiences we shared were all interesting. But most importantly, George and I loved each other. Over the years, I learned love is many things. I learned there are different types of love—types of love that change in different stages of life. Yes, there’s passionate love. But that’s not the only type of love. Love is enjoying having another person around. It’s feeling happy to see that person. It’s being excited when he comes home from a trip. It’s having a wonderful dinner conversation together. It’s having a true friend. It’s having someone who is always there for you. I’m fortunate to be able to tell you that George and I shared all these types of love. 051 Marrying George was the wisest decision I made in my entire life. For fifty-six years, I had the good fortune of living with my best friend. He’d help me through difficult situations. He’d give me advice. I laugh when I think: If George were here today, he’d probably tell me to slow down.

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I can hear him say, “Lal, why in the world do you want to be involved in another project?” But there’s not a doubt in my mind that if I decided to persist, which I probably would, he’d support me 100 percent. That’s a true friend. I hear people talk about the number of divorces nowadays. I think every marriage has rough times, but it’s important to understand the other person’s feelings and not get angry and walk out. Instead, think things through. Not everything is a bed of roses. Being married to your best friend makes a huge contribution to your life. It makes life easier and more enjoyable. I guess I’ve never given it too much thought before now. Because I had it, I just accepted it. To be perfectly honest, I have friends who think about getting married again, but for me—no way. I can’t imagine being married to anyone other than George. At times, I’m lonely. I do my best to overcome my feelings, but as the years go by loneliness becomes more and more evident. Because George was ill for so long, I knew he’d die any minute and leave me alone. I thought I was prepared. I wasn’t. Actually, it surprises me to realize how unprepared I was. It has been a few years now since George died, and every once in a while, I get a funny feeling. When I think about it, I realize, yes, I’m lonely. Then I get busy doing something besides feeling sorry for myself. I keep myself going and think about positive things. It’s important to keep busy, to be with friends, to have a project, to be optimistic.

Most importantly, George and I loved each other.

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Fifteenth Avenue South 2005

fter George died, I debated: Should I stay in Naples? Should I return to Chicago? I’m fortunate. Both my children live in Chicago. Many people have children scattered all over the country, but mine stayed in the same area. Although I miss being with them, I thought: I’ve made a life in Naples. My friends are in Naples. I keep busy helping wonderful organizations in Naples. That’s it. I’m staying put. And I’m glad I did. I belong in Naples. Naples is my home. Even so, I started to think about our house on Admiralty Parade. Granted, it had a wonderful view, and I loved living there. But it was a large, rather isolated piece of property. Many summers, we and maybe one or two other families were the only ones living on our street. Our neighbors were up north, and I didn’t like the idea of being out there by myself. Plus, for me, the mile-and-one-half distance to Gordon Drive was a long drive. I thought: It’s time to move. I decided I wanted a smaller house closer to town and had a good idea of the location I liked. I picked the Third Street area because, in case of rain, it has a higher elevation. With that said, ever since I moved in, we’ve had a drought. I tell my friends, “I bought the Range Rover to keep me out of high water, but if we don’t get some rain soon, I’m going to need it to get me through the desert.” When I saw the lot on Fifteenth Avenue South, I knew it was right for me. I can walk to town. I can walk to the beach. I’m in more of a neighborhood. Actually, I’m a mile closer to the club than I was on Admiralty Parade—plus, it’s a straight drive, so that makes getting there easier. I have more versatility here than I did in Port Royal. There was no doubt about the builder I wanted to use. When we were building our house in Admiralty Parade, John Remington was just buying A. Vernon Allen’s building company. He and Mr. Allen worked with us to build our house, and he never deserted me. Anytime I needed a repair or had a question, I called John, and within an hour somebody was ringing my doorbell ready to help. Years of loyalty mean an awful lot, so I never considered another builder.

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John helped me locate an architect who followed my lead. I saw a picture in a magazine and used it to show him what I had in mind. Of course, many things were changed along the way, but the architect understood me. When I told him what I wanted, he was rather clever in coming up with the design. I really wanted to make this house a home, so I had the living room designed to be similar to our lodge in Keewaydin. It doesn’t have the beams, but it does have a high ceiling, paneled walls, and a fireplace. All my furniture is the furniture that George and I collected over the years we lived in Europe. I didn’t buy a thing. I thought: This furniture doesn’t really fit in a Florida home, but I don’t care. It brings back memories. This is my life, and this furniture is coming with me. Each piece has a story. I know the country we lived in when we bought it and the memories that surround it. I’ll never give it away. My furniture helps me feel at home. I enjoyed the activity of building. It took my mind off losing George. Working with both the architect and builder was easy. From the plans to the permits to the final walk-through, they handled all the details, so I didn’t have too many problems. They teased me because I furnished cookies, cookies, and more cookies for the workers. They enjoyed my cookies. Actually, I must confess that I bought the cookies from Wynn’s Market. You’re probably not too surprised to learn that Wynn’s cookies are far superior to my cookies, and the workers sure didn’t care who made the cookies. I thought: Why not? I’ll keep the workers happy. It was all sort of fun.

I’m planning on many, many more happy years in the house at 266 Fifteenth Avenue South —the house that is now my home.

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The worst problem I had was the ceiling in the living room. It’s so high the builder had to erect scaffolding. Building the ceiling required two carpenters—each working from opposite ends—so the pieces of wood joined correctly. If the individual pieces of wood didn’t meet, they’d have to take the whole thing down and start over. Anyway, the first carpenter was a master carpenter. His brother-in-law was his helper. One day, I went to the store, and when I returned, I thought: Oh my goodness! There’s a police car in front of my new house. As I got out of the car, I saw one of the ceiling carpenters talking to a policeman. I hurried inside and said to Paul, the superintendent, “I went by earlier and everything was okay, but now there’s this police car in front of my house. What in the world happened?” He said, “There’s been a slight problem. The master carpenter got into a violent fight with his brother-in-law, and the brother-in-law called the police.” Well, that ended that. The two carpenters disappeared, and there we were—stuck with scaffolding but no carpenters. This went on for a long time. Finally, Paul found another fellow to build the ceiling. This carpenter didn’t fight, but he was temperamental. I had to give him lots of cookies. He’d take off on vacations, and we had no idea when he’d return. It took him months to finish the ceiling. Fortunately, the other work went on around it, but I did start to think: That scaffolding will never come down. After the ceiling was finished, I had to admit the crabby carpenter did a beautiful job. I don’t think I’d recommend him. His work is great, but his temperament—oh my. The pond in the backyard became quite a project. I envisioned it as a small, charming pond. Well, I was in Chicago when the cement was poured. When I came back, I was rather horrified to see my “small, charming pond.” I said, “John, this looks like an enormous lap pool. I wanted a twisty pond like I had at my other house. This is hardly the same thing.” John worked with me and found old keystone that makes my pond look tropical. I still think it’s too big, but at least it hides the house behind me and gives me some privacy. All in all, he did a good job. 052 I moved into the house in August 2005—before it was finished. This wasn’t too bad except I had to be up and dressed before the workmen arrived at seven o’clock every morning. Two years previously, one

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patrick o’brien

Me in my garden at Fifteenth Avenue South, Naples, Florida, 2006

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hurricane after another struck South Florida. Even though I’d decided that hurricanes didn’t really bother me—that they wouldn’t force me out of my home—I didn’t want to be on Admiralty Parade by myself in a hurricane. So I moved in a bit too soon. I’ve lived in my new house for three years. It’s true that my life without George is different, but when I reflect, I realize: The years in my new house have been good years—happy years. And I want to tell you that I’m planning on many, many more happy years in the house at 266 Fifteenth Avenue South—the house that is now my home.

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Son-in-law Daughter-in-law

Bill the Father

Our NeNe

My Son-in-law and Daughter-in-law William Spence Nancy Monek Norris

ometimes it’s difficult for me to believe that my children are married and have children of their own. DeeDee married William Spence. Brud married Nancy Monek. This, of course, expanded my family. My son-in-law, William—Bill—Spence, spends lots of time with his children and thinks of many novel things for the family to do together. At times, I think these activities are sort of exhausting, but they seem to have fun. Bill does his best to make his children think through their problems. I want you to know this about Bill: He’s a good father. 054 Nancy Monek Norris—NeNe—is my daughter-in-law. I couldn’t have chosen a better daughter-in-law than Nancy. Nor could I have loved another one any more than I love Nancy. She is one of the kindest people ever. She’s a wonderful wife and mother. She’s always there for her friends. She’s a wonderful cook and housekeeper. Along with all that, Nancy works hard to support various organizations in Chicago. For many years, she was on the Lyric Opera’s Board of Directors. During the last few years, she has worked diligently to help Northwestern Hospital. As a matter of fact, she is on the hospital’s Women’s Board and has initiated a program called “Hope.” Hope helps women with AIDS. I’m pleased to tell you that because of Hope, many

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children born to women with the horrible HIV/AIDS condition are AIDS free. 055 Nancy convinced the Women’s Board to get funding for Hope. She also recruited doctors and nurses to work with the pregnant mothers. I remember going to a fundraiser for Hope—a picnic that Nancy organizes once a year—and I couldn’t tell who had AIDS and who didn’t. Everyone appeared to be very healthy. That’s a wonderful accomplishment, and I’m very proud of Nancy.

Sometimes it’s difficult for me to believe that my children are married and have children of their own.

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Grandchildren

photo by marjorie lenk

Our Grandchildren, Tyler, Boppie, George III, Ba holding Geoff, Kelly, Ryan, circa 1998

My Grandchildren Kelly Spence, Tyler Spence, Ryan Spence George Gaynor, Geoffrey Gaynor

o you know what makes me happy? My instant answer is, “My grandchildren.” I adore my grandchildren. I’m very proud of them. My five grandchildren—one granddaughter and four grandsons—bring joy to my life. At times, I may worry a bit about them, but that’s okay. “Worry” is in the fine print of a grandmother’s bill of rights. I wouldn’t trade my grandchildren for the world. My eldest grandchild is Kelly Spence. Her brothers are Tyler and Ryan Spence. They are DeeDee’s children. Then I have George and Geoffrey—Geoff—Gaynor. They are Brud’s children. Currently all my grandchildren are in their twenties. Sometimes I sit and wonder: Where did those years go? Wasn’t it just yesterday when they were babies? 056 My grandchildren call me “Ba.” Ba originated with Kelly. I don’t know why she called me “Ba,” but she did. Maybe it was because I’d sit with her and read Ba Ba Black Sheep over and over. In actuality, I think it was because when she tried to say “Grandma,” she couldn’t pronounce the word. Whatever the reason, Ba it is. The grandchildren called George “Boppie.” Being a grandma is different than being a mother. When situations happen—as they always do with children—a grandma thinks: Oh! It’s not really that important. Don’t get upset over little things. Then she goes on

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with her day. A grandma has more time than a mother to sit and read stories to the children. There’s an unwritten rule that reads: “Grandma can feed her grandchildren whatever she wants to feed them.” DeeDee didn’t permit her children to have a lot of cake or candy. But—for sure—they got cake and candy at my house. A grandma can enjoy the children immensely, and then send them home to their mother. I love being a grandma. I admit it. I spoiled my grandchildren. To my credit, however, I insisted they follow their regular routines. Granted, I treated them to forbidden food, but at least they went to bed at their normal bedtimes— except Kelly. Kelly had a habit of getting up in the middle of the night. When she stayed with us, her bedroom was down a long hallway from our bedroom. I’d wake up, and through the dim light, I’d see her little form. There she’d be—thumb in her mouth, dragging her pink blanket behind her, inching her way to our bedroom. Then before we knew what was happening, Kerplunk! She’d climb over George and plop down between us. Being in the middle was okay. What wasn’t okay was babbling. She’d talk and talk and talk. When her incessant chatter didn’t get the response she hoped for, she’d jump around. Well, George couldn’t take it. In his bed, two AM prattle and gymnastics simply weren’t acceptable. I’d say, “Kelly, if you want to stay with Ba and Boppie, just lie down, honey, and go to sleep.” But this didn’t appeal to Kelly. She preferred to talk and jump, jump and talk. It didn’t take long for George to growl, “Take this child back to bed—now.” I’d get up, take Kelly by the hand, lead her down the hall, get her settled, chat a bit, and kiss her. “Good-night, honey. Go to sleep now.” She’d smile sweetly. “Good-night, Ba.” I’d just about get comfy in our bed when back she’d come. One night this drill went on about three times. Finally, George reached his limit. He was absolutely disgusted with the whole thing and barked at me, “You have no idea how to manage children.” With that, he swung out of bed, grabbed Kelly, tucked her under his arm, and stomped down the hall. I could hear his reprimand, “Now, Kelly, you stay in your bed.”

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He marched back into our room muttering, “You don’t understand how to take care of children. If you do it the right way, everything is fine,” and flopped back into bed. I absolutely choked on muffled laughter. There was Kelly—following George, thumb in her mouth, dragging her pink blanket behind her. As usual, she climbed over George. “Hi, Boppie,” she said. I heard George gasp and wondered if he’d pass out. I patted Kelly and thought: My. My. So much for the George H. Gaynor School of Childrearing. Tyler was a tiny child. He had real rhythm. Even when he could barely walk, anytime he’d hear music, he’d dance. Tyler was a very active child—much like a monkey. It seemed to me he could climb out of anything. I’d look for him, and there he’d be—hanging upside down from the strangest places. Ryan was just as agile. I’ll never forget the time DeeDee and Bill went to China and asked me to stay with the children. I don’t think they’d even made it to the airport before I had my first agility jolt. The boys asked if they could go outside and play with their neighborhood friends. I thought: No problem. No problem DeeDee tells me they’re allowed. So I gave my permission. Ryan was only about seven-years-old, so I checked on him frequently. Well, about ten minutes into their playtime, I looked out the window and saw Tyler and some other boys standing on the sidewalk. But no Ryan. My heart skipped a beat. I opened the window and called down, “Tyler, where’s Ryan?” “Up on the fire escape, Ba. He’s at the window and wants to get in.” “How in the world did he get on the fire escape?” I knew the fire escape was pulled up and protected by a gate that had rails topped with pointed spikes. “He went up on the gate.” “He went up on the gate?” “Yep.” I went running to the window in Bill’s den where the fire escape ended. Sure enough, there was Ryan’s little face looking in the window. The only problem was I couldn’t get the window open. “Ryan, I can’t open the window. You stay put. Don’t worry. I’m on my way downstairs. I’ll get help.”

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I flew downstairs thinking I’d call the fire department to get a ladder and rescue Ryan. Moments later, I reached the street, and there was Ryan—standing calmly with the other boys looking at me as if to say, Ba, what took you so long? All I could think was: I’m delighted I didn’t witness his agility performance. That wasn’t the end of our agility adventures. Bill grew live trees in their apartment, and Ziggy—Tyler’s iguana—loved those trees. One evening, Tyler came to me and said, “Ba, I have a little problem. Ziggy is up in Dad’s tree in the dining room, and I can’t get him down. I’ll get a ladder. Then you can climb up the ladder and rescue Ziggy. What do you think?” “Tyler, I have a better idea. I’ll get the ladder. Then you can climb up the ladder and rescue Ziggy. Or, if you prefer, we can wait for your father to get home, and he can climb up the ladder and rescue Ziggy. What do you think?” There wasn’t much hesitation. Somehow it didn’t seem appropriate for Dad to climb up the ladder and rescue Ziggy. The story has a happy ending: No one climbed up the ladder. A few days later, Ziggy decided he’d had enough and came down on his own.

My five grandchildren—one granddaughter and four grandsons—bring joy to my life.

George is an inventor. I remember taking care of him when he was only about three or four. In the middle of the night, I was startled awake by lots of noise. I thought: What in the world? and jumped out of bed. The television was on. The radio was on. The lights were on. I was convinced that they’d all clicked on at the exact same moment. And there was George—just standing there looking innocent. To this day,

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I can’t figure out how a child his age managed to get all those things working at the same time. I suppose because Geoff is the youngest, I always thought of him as a cute little thing. Well, he’s certainly no longer a little thing. Geoff is now in college and is very independent, but then he’s always been an independent thinker. Geoff is a very dependable boy. When it comes to obeying laws, Geoff insists on doing the right thing. One of a grandmother’s rights and responsibilities is to give her grandchildren advice. And I’m no different. Many times, my grandchildren have listened to me encourage them to continue their educations. To me, education doesn’t mean just a formal education. Education means learning little things every day, keeping an open mind, listening to what people have to say. Of course, I think it’s helpful for my grandchildren to continue their formal educations, too. Formal education provides a foundation for learning more. So far, my advice is well taken. As a matter of fact, I have to laugh. Sometimes I think Kelly, Tyler, and Ryan, who received a great deal of their education in China, take my advice too literally. They don’t seem to be able to get enough education. They want more and more, but the more they get, the more they discover things they don’t know, so the more education they want. Speaking of “more education,” look at what’s happened with technology. I try to keep up, but all the cyber-things befuddle this old woman. It’s rather frightening to think that technology sort of leaves me behind. I remember my grandmother saying, “It’s absolutely amazing to consider what’s happened in my lifetime. First we had the horse-drawn carriage. Then street cars. Then automobiles. Then airplanes. Oh, my goodness. This is great, but there are so many changes, I can’t keep up.” When I was young, I didn’t understand Grandma’s problem. I’d sit and think: Poor old Grandma. But now poor old Grandma is me, and it’s my grandchildren who don’t understand why I’m so baffled. You know what they say, “If you want to know anything about your computer ask a twelve-year-old.” The problem is my “twelve-year-olds” are too far away to help me. Technology aside, I’m amazed at what I learn. Each day I learn something new. Education is lifelong. The trouble is—at my age—my

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brain has a tendency to stage a sit-down strike. This means I must stop and reflect on what I’m learning. Sometimes, when I have a forgetful moment, I think: I hear bridge is good for the brain. Maybe I should take up bridge. Then a reality check raises its hand and reminds me to stop fooling myself. Bridge takes too much time. I’ll never be a sought-after bridge partner. Oh well, worse things have happened. I hope my grandchildren recognize I’ve always looked at the bright side of things. I want them to remember that in life, they will run across people who disappoint them. When this happens, I hope they don’t let it bother them. My advice is this: Kelly, Ryan, Tyler, George, and Geoff, when someone disappoints you, don’t dwell on what happened. Keep busy. Do other things. The important thing is to go through life without worrying too much about what has happened in the past. The past is the past. Learn from your mistakes, but remember that today is another day. Think about the future. Get yourself focused on what you want to do and think about how you can strive to meet your goals. When plans change—and they will—accept the change and move on. You can’t always control what happens to you, but you can control the way you react to it.

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Keewaydin

The Way It Was, Keewaydin Island, Florida, 1984

Keewaydin Old Florida at its Finest

want to go back to the limited, but official records, memorabilia, and memories of my family and do my best to reconstruct for you what is a deeply meaningful chapter in the story of the Norris family. It’s difficult to put into words my heartfelt feelings for Keewaydin, but I think you’ll understand when I tell you this: My parents loved Keewaydin, and so did I. 057 or 058 Key Island is a barrier island just a few nautical miles away from Naples. It is bounded on the north by Gordon Pass, the south by the Thousand Islands, the west by the Gulf of Mexico, and the east by the Intercoastal Waterway. The name Keewaydin comes from the lovely lines in Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s Song of Hiawatha: I will share my kingdom with you: Ruler shall you be thenceforward Of the Northwest-Wind Keewaydin Of the homewind, the Keewaydin The Keewaydin Club didn’t come about by happenstance. It was conceived in 1934 by owner/builder Chestman Kittridge Jr. Mr. Kittridge was a member of the Board of Directors of the extensive Keewaydin Camps that were then located in the Eastern United States and Canada. The official opening of Keewaydin in Florida was held in late 1935 with

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the first guests—guests that numbered about forty at the height of the season—arriving in January 1936. Mr. Kittridge didn’t want Keewaydin to be a camp. Instead, he envisioned a club meant to provide educational assistance to children whose parents wintered in the tropical environment of Key Island. In May of 1936, Mr. Kittridge died. Guests, who were fondly called “Keewaydinites,” were concerned that their much-loved club would close, but fortunately John “Speedy” Rush of Princeton, New Jersey, and the executive director of all Keewaydin Camps had a special interest in the Southwest Florida Keewaydin Club project. With the assistance of other members of the Keewaydin Camp organization and devoted staff, Mr. Rush decided to carry on the club’s operation and maintain the natural beauty, mystery, and uniqueness of the island. Guests were assured that they could continue to enjoy the great variety of shells, birds, small animals, fish, plants, and trees that were abundant on the land and in the surrounding waters. Unfortunately, the school wasn’t a success. Even though a few children were ferried over from Naples to help defray expenses, the educational program was eventually discontinued, and the school buildings were converted to guest accommodations. All went well until the 1942-1943 season when our country’s wartime conditions started to interfere with the club’s operation. The lack of supplies—especially limited gas for the ferry Kokomis—diminished the quality of service and imposed hardships on the club’s management and its guests. Black outs and other precautionary directives from the

Key Island

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U.S. Coast Guard added to the general state of discomfort. Black out curtains were hung in all the windows facing the Gulf, and even though the guests cooperated, Mr. Rush found it necessary to make nightly excursions on the beach to be certain no one was careless or forgetful. Guests were required to obtain and carry permits at all times. Coast Guard boats patrolled constantly in and out of the backwaters, and planes flew regularly overhead or shore-hopped along the beach. Finally, during the 1944-1945 season, Mr. Rush had enough and decided he could no longer operate the club. His spirit was broken over the loss of his only son, and the difficulties of the war years simply overwhelmed him. With great sorrow, Keewaydin was placed on the market for sale. Finding an interested buyer during the time of national crisis wasn’t an easy task. It was a sad and worrisome situation for Mr. Rush and the guests because everyone hoped fervently that not only would Keewaydin carry on, it would continue with the same spirit. In the spring of 1945, Keewaydin guests Waldo and Julia May providentially and circuitously came to its rescue. This was during the years that my father traveled the country promoting Victory Gardens. He was scheduled to speak at the Rod and Gun Club in Everglades City and then to rest there for a few days. My mother was with him. In those days lodging was difficult to find. When Mr. May heard of my parents’ dilemma he phoned my father and suggested a solution to their problem. “Lester, why don’t you and Dee join me and Julia at the Keewaydin Club on Key Island?” My father asked, “Key Island? Where in the world is that?”

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Boat Dock, Keewaydin Club

Mr. May explained, “It’s a wonderful, isolated island at the end of Gordon Pass just south of Naples. The club is quaint and charming. You’ll love it.” This seemed to be the only option, so, reluctantly, my father agreed. Once on the island, my parents discovered the club was for sale. My mother did some gentle—but firm—prodding, and during the spring of 1946, my parents became the official new owners of Keewaydin. As the story goes, Mr. Rush left the island with tears in his eyes and the parting remark, “Thank God. Now there will always be our Keewaydin,” which was a sentiment echoed by the relieved Keewaydinites. Back in St. Charles, my father quipped, “Because of Dee’s love of sea shelling, she managed to talk me into buying the option on this club in Florida.” The exact details of my parents’ negotiations with each other were kept between the two of them. But no matter how the deal was made, it was time for our family to visit the island. Dad, Mother, my brother Johnny, and I loaded the car, and off we went. We were hardly

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out of St. Charles before we had our first of many flat tires. Because this was right after the war, we couldn’t get tires. I said to Johnny, “I guess we’ll just have to make the entire trip on inner tubes.” The trip seemed to take forever. Everyone was tired. The backseat was cramped and uncomfortable. Finally, we hit the city limits of Naples. My mother turned around and announced, “Okay, we’re in Naples.” Johnny looked at me and smiled. “Well, we made it,” was his naïve remark. We were on U.S. 41 at about what is now Immokalee Road. At that time, U.S. 41 was a two-lane road with absolutely nothing on both sides but palm trees and scrub. There wasn’t a building to be seen. We drove and drove and drove. Then we drove some more. Johnny looked at me again, but this time he didn’t smile. “This looks like it’s going to be a real fun vacation, Lala.” Finally, we made it to where U.S. 41 makes a left turn toward Miami. At the time, this was called the Four Corners and was really the start of Naples. Here we saw a gas station, a liquor store, and a hole-in-the-wall grocery store. When we turned on to Third Street, the big Old Naples Hotel was directly in front of us. I don’t recall seeing much at all on Fifth Avenue. I know it’s hard to believe, but that’s about all that was there. We turned onto Gordon Drive, which at the time was Second Avenue South, and the road became a shell road lined with mangroves. We bumped along on our inner tubes until we passed the Briggs’s home and boarded the boat to the island. By then Johnny wasn’t even looking at me. As the boat got close to the island, I could see a group of rustic cottages done in the Old Florida style constructed from Florida pine. We disembarked and looked around. There was a main lodge that had a wonderful, big room with a fireplace. This unique, impressive fireplace was built of local stones, and the fireboxes of the chimney actually opened into three rooms—the main room, the library, and the entryway. 059 A huge, charming porch ran along the front of the main building. Rocking chairs creaked back and forth, back and forth on the wooden floor. People relaxed. It was great fun to rock, gaze at the clouds, and do absolutely nothing. However, when the wind whipped across the island or the temperature dropped, it was uncomfortable to sit on the porch. When Dad observed the porch wasn’t getting much use, he enclosed it

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My parents loved Keewaydin, and so did I. and created a new section we called the Seminole Room. The club also had a rustic dining room and big kitchen where the chef created local favorites. Believe it or not, the entire club had one telephone. After we were on the island for a few days, the weather turned cold. I’d neglected to pack any warm clothing, so Mother said, “Come on, Lala. We’ll go into town and buy a sweater or something to keep you warm.” Come to find out, Zita’s—a boutique in the hotel—was the only lady’s clothing store in town. It didn’t take me long to survey every piece of clothing that hung on Zita’s racks and declare, “Mother, this is a shop for old women.” I returned to the island still shivering. Keewaydin’s attraction was its simplicity. The only activities were fishing and combing the beach for seashells. In those days, shelling and fishing were fabulous. And the birds. Oh! What beautiful birds. Every morning and every evening, it was a treat to sit and watch the magnificent birds flock to the island. Everything about Keewaydin was low key. People came year after year to get away from everything. They looked forward to greeting old friends and making new friends. When the club first opened, most members were retired, but, eventually, new generations came along, and Keewaydin became an important part of their lives. The club opened after Christmas, and because people needed to get home and complete income taxes before the April 15th deadline, it closed April 1st. Many guests stayed for the entire season. People who knew Keewaydin and the Naples community back in the early days can hardly believe what’s happened to the area. Naples was founded during the late 1880s by John Stuart Williams, who was a former Confederate general and a U.S. senator from Kentucky, and Walter Haldeman, who was a businessman and publisher of the Louisville Courier-Journal. The city’s name came from developers, who advertized it up north as “a bay comparable to that of Naples, Italy.” When Naples first became Naples, the only way to get to it was by boat. There were no

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roads. There was no train. It was a village totally isolated by water. The Naples pier was its connection to the rest of the world. The first road, which is now the Tamiami Trail North, was completed in about 1918, but its shells and deep mud ruts didn’t make it much of a road. At that time, if Naples residents wanted to travel to Miami, they would drive north to Jacksonville and then turn south. In about 1928, the Tamiami Trail East was completed—a feat that allowed an occasional car to pass through the Four Corners on its way to Miami. Every day, at noon, you could hear the loud whistle of the Orange Blossom Express as it arrived at the train depot. Gradually, shops opened. But I remember when the owners locked their doors and went up north for the summer. If you wanted to buy anything during the sweltering summer months, you had to drive clear to Miami. The first commercial building on Fifth Avenue South was the Ed Frank Garage. The Frank family lived over the garage, and Mrs. Frank threw her table scraps out the window to feed the alligators that lived in the swamp below—a swamp that eventually filled with rusty old cars and greasy motors. Next to the garage, Cory Osceola, who was a member of the Seminole tribe, and his family set up a stand where they sold their Indian crafts. Interestingly, the descendants of the Osceolas are now world-renowned builders of Chickees—the cypress pole huts with palmetto-thatched roofs that today stand all over Southwest Florida and the Caribbean. By around 1930, the Rexall Drug Store stood on the corner of Fifth Avenue South and Eighth Street South. It was the gathering place for local businessmen, who sat on the benches outside discussing whatever businessmen discuss, and local children, who sat on the floor inside reading comic books. In about 1932, the Naples Women’s Club took on the project of building the town’s first library. In 1945, there were only seventeen telephones in the entire town, and it wasn’t until 1949 that Mamie Tooke, who is often referred to as “the Mother of Naples,” opened the first bank. In Naples’s very early days there was only one doctor in town. Then in the 1950s, citizens got together and decided to build a hospital. This increased the medical staff to two doctors and two nurses. Thelma Hodges was one of the nurses. This was before she married Earl. I don’t

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Dad, Keewaydin Lodge

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remember her maiden name, but I do remember my father telling me about Thelma—his wonderful nurse. It’s an understatement to say, “Things sure are different now.” But they are. After the Depression, the area started to boom. Today, in 2008, Naples spreads out to encompass all of Collier County. The ongoing influx of people from up north and, actually, from all over the country is our greatest problem. There are so many people that our resources are seriously taxed. I especially worry about the water problem. How much water do we really have for all the people who are here? And the infrastructure? Well, that’s a huge problem in itself. There are already too many cars, but they just keep coming. The developers aren’t going to like what I have to say. Nonetheless, here goes, “Somewhere, somehow, something has to stop. Enough is enough.” Anyway, back to Keewaydin. My parents hired a manager, but they remained involved running the club. They lived on the property for the winter season, and often they returned in the summertime. The location was perfect. It was quiet and lovely. Yet, it was close to Naples, so they

could continue their work with the Conversancy. Within a short time after their purchase, they started to plan how they could add to the club, improve its facilities, and preserve the island as a natural habitat. In September 1960, Hurricane Donna played havoc with Keewaydin by inflicting a great deal of damage to its buildings and docks and uprooting beautiful and unusual groves of tall pines. But my parents remained undaunted. Not wanting to disappoint the guests, they began at once to prepare for the scheduled opening of the 1960-1961 season. Keewaydinites were self-sustaining. They came to the island to enjoy exploring, reading, boating, hiking, shelling, bird-watching, writing, swimming, painting, shuffleboard, fishing, and good conversation. Each evening, prior to dinner, a social hour was held in the cottages. After dinner, guests enjoyed bridge, canasta, and other games in the main lodge. Holidays were honored. Easter Sunday services were conducted by one of the guests at the Gordon Pass Point. Eventually, A. Bram Bednik built the first outdoor chapel just south of the club. Saturday night bingo was an ever-popular form of entertainment as were the February Sunday night sing-a-longs, which were led by Harold “Greenie” Greenwell and his banjo. So called “just-for-the-fun-of-it” shuffleboard tournaments were played with deadly competition and were the highlight of each season. Eventually, backgammon, as an indoor sport, shared the same high status as shuffleboard. 060 Dad was the perfect host. He became the self-appointed player of the pogo stick and other fun-loving musical instruments. During the height of each season, he’d surprise guests with talented and knowledgeable speakers. Along with Mother and other family members, he loved to host festive holiday gatherings and hilarious, spontaneous beach parties. All of this strengthened the bond among Keewaydin’s guests. Beautiful, long-term friendships were formed, and the connection between the island and the guests was strengthened. The unique spirit and quality of life of the Keewaydinites never wavered. They became a Keewaydin family—a family that sought to learn, to respect, and to enjoy one another while surrounded by the serenity of their own special island. The exact date has been forgotten, but around 1960, the guests presented Mother and Dad with a flagpole as a gift of thanks for being

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Golden Wedding Anniversary, Mother and Dad, Keewaydin Island, March 28, 1973

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an integral part of the Keewaydin family. All the guests assembled at the entrance to the cove to watch the American flag raised for the first time on the island. Later, the flagpole had to be replaced, so the grandchildren presented Mother and Dad with a new one. Everyone acknowledged that the flagpole was a touching symbol of joy and support for Mother and Dad’s unwavering commitment to the island they loved. The guests’ love of ceremony and celebration of special and trivial occasions was recognized far and wide. Keewaydinites embraced any opportunity to share someone’s unusual discovery or honor the winner of a contest or tournament. Celebrating birthdays, weddings, and christenings was a Keewaydin tradition, and the Norris family members were willing participants. Mother and Dad’s 50th wedding anniversary was celebrated on Keewaydin. DeeDee and Bill were married on Keewaydin. Numerous grandchildren were baptized on Keewaydin. One of our most treasured family heirlooms is a conch shell that held the blessed baptismal seawater. 074 After Mother died, I offered to help Dad with the club, but he didn’t want my assistance. I think he discovered that it was a necessary distraction. Then when my father died, our family decided that because I was the eldest sibling and the one who lived in Southwest Florida, it was appropriate for me to manage Keewaydin. As much as I loved it, I didn’t want to be running a club. Keewaydin was really a resort, but in those days resorts in Southwest Florida were still called “clubs.” Anyway, no matter what it was called, the staffing, and the changing of beds, and the cleaning didn’t interest me. I hired Bill Farrar as a manager, and even though he did a good job, the whole situation became political. My father was good at dealing with political situations, but not me. I’m too honest. Other people may not see my point, but I tell everything like it is. Even though it was difficult to think that Keewaydin would no longer be in the family, I said to Joann, “As much as I love Keewaydin, I can’t keep it up.” She agreed. “Lal, you’re right. I have no interest, and Bob doesn’t even like Florida. It’s time to sell.” We put Keewaydin on the market. Six family members were involved with the negotiations, so it wasn’t an easy sale, but finally, in

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Ready for Dinner, George and Me, Keewaydin Dining Room, circa 1975

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1989, Keewaydin sold to John Remmington and the Dracket family. A few years later, they sold the property to John Donahue. This was one of the most difficult times of my entire life. There were certain people who I thought were my good friends, but they turned on me. What happened isn’t a pretty story, but unfortunately, it’s true. During the time Keewaydin was for sale, many new people moved into our community. Petitions blaming me and my family for creating too much traffic on Gordon Drive were circulated. Now, mind you, once people took the boat over to Keewaydin, it was rare that they left the island. It wasn’t us causing the traffic. It was basically sightseers—all the new people who were driving up and down Gordon Drive gawking at Mr. Donohue’s new house. I received copies of the petitions and saw the signatures. That’s how I found out that people I thought were my friends had turned against me. They knew perfectly well that I wasn’t the cause of the traffic. They knew it was the newcomers, but they signed the petitions anyway. This was very, very difficult for me. Fortunately, George was with me. Without him, I don’t know what I would have done. He was every bit as upset as I was, but he helped me through it. I don’t think the people who signed the petitions knew I had access to the names. But I did. I thought: Okay. I know who you are. I’ll be on my guard. 053 I maintained relationships with people who were loyal to us— people who stood by us. It’s interesting to go through a situation like this and find out who your friends really are. I must say that I haven’t really forgiven the people who falsely accused us. It certainly changed our relationship. But then I stop and think: Life’s too short. I’ll just go out and find true friends. And to tell you the truth—it doesn’t bother me anymore. Preservation is important to my family, so I had the site of Keewaydin put on the National Register of Historic Sites. There are only two or three other sites in the state of Florida on this registry. I thought that by putting Keewaydin on the national registry, the buildings would be maintained as a historical area of Old Naples. But apparently, the city council and others didn’t care enough to recognize the significance of this site and maintain the integrity of Keewaydin. The land is still there, but I’m sorry that the buildings are no longer the same. The decorators claim that the new furniture replicates 1935

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furniture. I’ve seen pictures of the furniture, and even though it is lovely, it’s not what was there in the thirties. It is history lost. To me, Keewaydin was charming. I loved chugging through Gordon Pass and stepping off the boat onto the island. The feeling was Old Florida at its finest. It was a wonderful contrast to the rest of life in Southwest Florida, or, for that matter, anywhere. Everyone has an opinion. Now, Mr. Donohue owns the land, so he can rightfully do what he wants with the land and the buildings. I think he’s wrong, but that’s my opinion. I just don’t look at Keewaydin anymore. One of the greatest tragedies of the Naples community is that its history is rapidly becoming lost. The Naples Historical Society has documented some history of the very early people who settled in Naples, but I’ve explained time and time again: The stories of people who built Naples from the early 1930s forward must be told. After all, these people are Naples. Sadly, no one is telling their stories. There’s Glen Sample who started Port Royal, William Ely who pioneered the Naples water system, Dr. Briggs who was one of the first doctors in Naples, Thelma Hodges who was one of the first nurses in Naples, Henry Watkins who built the Beach Club Hotel. What about Mr. Morris who built Aqualane Shores? What about the Uihleins and the Sloans? These people, and others, came into the area with vision and vitality. These people loved Naples. These people laid our community’s foundation. In some cases, the original people are dead, but their children must tell their stories. Once the children are gone, the grandchildren won’t know the details, and the stories will be lost forever. I’m fortunate because Terry McMahan, the president of Hodges University, was kind enough to provide me with the opportunity to tell my story. But what about the others? Quite frankly, nothing is being done, and that’s dreadful.

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Pets

Rosie the Elephant, Miami Beach, 1927

Rosie the Elephant An Almost Pet

y family adores animals. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in my family loves pets. In many ways, our pets are the very center of our lives. One of my earliest memories involves a pet—well, an almost pet. Each winter, my family escaped the frigid St. Charles winters and spent a few months at our home on Miami Beach. This is where I met an elephant named Rosie. Now, mind you, I couldn’t have been more than four years old, but I informed my parents, “Rosie is the most beautiful creature I’ve seen in my entire life.” 061 Rosie pulled a little wagon around the neighborhood, and all the children on the beach squealed to ride in Rosie’s wagon. To me, this was the most glorious doing in the whole world. I just couldn’t understand why my father wouldn’t buy me a pet elephant. But my hope was just a hope. Many years later, it was my brother Bob who acquired a pet elephant.

My family adores animals. Everyone, and I mean everyone, in my family loves pets. 283

Amy the Elephant A Stolen Heart

n the late 1980s, adult elephants in Zimbabwe were slaughtered mercilessly for their ivory. It’s important for you to understand that baby elephants need their mothers and their aunties. Adult females protect the babies. They nurture them, encourage them, praise them. In addition, baby elephants eat and eat and eat some more. Because they absorb only a tiny amount of the nutrients they take in, adults are constantly looking for additional food. Without adult females, babies are helpless. They, literally, can’t live without care and attention from their mothers and aunties. If a baby elephant is separated from the herd, its fate is certain. It will die. Fortunately for the Zimbabwe elephants, a hero came along. His name was Buck deVries. Buck couldn’t save all baby elephants, but he did his best. One morning, he took his cargo of six rescued babies to the loading dock at Johannesburg’s Jan Smuts Airport, and before the elephants were loaded into the 747, Buck wrote “Amy” on the side of one of the crates. He hoped anyone who met this baby elephant would recognize the name to mean “friend.” The terrified Amy didn’t know it, but she was going home. On the other side of the world—over 10,000 miles away—my brother Bob went about business as usual. His Colorado Springs ranch required lots of work, and Bob was a hands-on type boss. One morning, as he was feeding his horses, a ranch hand interrupted him. “Boss, some guy came by wantin’ to rent stalls. I told him you don’t do such a thing. But I got a notion he’ll be back.” The ranch hand’s prediction was correct. Shortly, a pickup truck pulled into the yard. A man jumped out of its cab, stuck out his hand, and introduced himself to my brother. “The name’s Barry Jackson.” “What can I do for you, Mr. Jackson?” Bob asked politely. “I’d like to rent a couple of your stalls.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Jackson. I don’t rent out my stalls. But just out of curiosity, what kind of horses do you have?” “I don’t exactly have horses.”

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All Bob could think was: Mr. Jackson must have ostriches. I hate ostriches. Again, he refused to rent his stalls. But Mr. Jackson persisted, “I have something unique—something I think you’ll like. I have six baby elephants.” Bob grinned slowly. “Elephants? Now, that is unique.” His interest was piqued. And as soon as he saw Amy, his heart was stolen. She was smaller than the other elephants and had an innate charm. Bob knew horses and elephants didn’t particularly get along. Nonetheless, Amy didn’t have to worry about a place to sleep. She was home. Once the six babies were settled into their stalls, Bob noticed the other elephants pestered Amy. She was the runt. She was different. Bob was concerned and decided Amy needed a personal caregiver, so he separated her from the other elephants and gave her special attention. Amy wasn’t quite weaned, so Bob hand-fed her oats and held a bucket so she could drink milk. The Colorado weather was turning cold, and without the protection of a mother Amy needed a special heat lamp. But the extra work didn’t bother Bob one bit. He watched her. He enticed her with carrots. He petted her. He loved her. 062

Bob and Amy, Colorado Springs Ranch

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Even with the extra TLC, Amy didn’t flourish. She was physically strong, but something was wrong. She was lethargic, despondent. The vet checked her over and announced, “I don’t know what to tell you. She’s healthy.” But Bob knew animals. Amy wasn’t healthy. She was depressed. She was in mourning. Amy missed her mother. Enter Michelle, the goat. Michelle was a mellow goat and an unlikely best friend for an elephant. But from the moment they met, Amy and Michelle became what in the human world might be called “kindred spirits.” They ate together. They slept together. They played together. They protected each other. They chased each other. And, occasionally, they fussed at each other. After Amy lived on the ranch a few years, Bob and his wife, Jane, became regular snowbirds. They left the frigid Colorado winters for the warmth of Arizona. Bob customized his horse trailer to accommodate Amy and Michelle, and after the last fall round-up, off they went. Jane’s quasi-joke was, “My life is regulated by an elephant.” It didn’t matter that Jane wanted to spend Thanksgiving in Colorado with her children. When Amy got cold, it was time to pack up and head south. As Amy got bigger and USDA regulations got more rigid, life with an elephant became complicated. Bob knew he had to make one of his most difficult life decisions: He gave Amy to the Big Apple Circus. I’m not sure what happened to Michelle. I guess goats don’t live as long as elephants, so maybe she died. Years later, Bob attended the circus, and Amy picked him out of the crowd. Perhaps it’s true that elephants never forget. I know Bob didn’t.

Dog Tales A Family Tradition

y siblings and I grew up loving dogs. From the time we were young children, each of us owned a dog, or two, or three. My first dog was a gift from Santa Claus. Santa knew I

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I named my new puppy Dixie, and we quickly became inseparable.

loved animals, and because I was such a good girl, he gave me the only Christmas present on my list—a puppy. Well, Santa was generous that year. I was allowed to choose between two puppies—both Cairn Terriers. One was a very expensive, pedigreed puppy. The other was just a puppy without a pedigree. But I didn’t care. This puppy had personality. This puppy appealed to me immediately. Anyone who doubts the possibility of love at first sight is wrong. I named my new puppy Dixie, and we quickly became inseparable. Dixie went with me everywhere—including to bed. Dixie was a sweet little thing with perky ears and gray fur that sort of stuck straight out all over the place. Dixie and I were together every day until I went away to college. The day I heard that Dixie was killed by a car was one of the saddest days in my life. Dempsey was my parents’ Great Dane. We adopted Dempsey from a family that moved away from St. Charles, and for some reason they had to leave Dempsey behind. Dempsey and Dixie soon became best friends. Dempsey was a wanderer. He’d take off loping toward town with Dixie trotting as fast as her little legs could move right behind him. They were headed toward my father’s office. They were quite the sight, making people laugh and give them food. Everybody in town knew and loved Dempsey and Dixie. 063 When they reached a street corner, Dempsey stopped at the curb and waited for Dixie to catch up. Then he’d escort her across the street. One day—right in the middle of town—Dempsey ran across the street too fast, and Dixie couldn’t keep up. She was hit by a car. The instant Dempsey saw what happened, he turned around, dashed back to the middle of the street, and positioned himself next to Dixie. His low growl left no doubts: Don’t touch Dixie. My father wasn’t in his office, so someone called the police. An officer approached, and Dempsey bared his teeth. Well, arguing with a Great Dane was above and beyond the officer’s job description, so he

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Me and Dixie, circa 1930

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had no problem backing away. Eventually, a man who worked for my parents persuaded Dempsey that he only wanted to help Dixie. Dempsey relented. The man gently lifted Dixie into his arms, but it was too late. Dixie was dead. Technically, Bobby was my father’s dog. But from the time my siblings and I were very young, Bobby lived with us. Because we grew up with Bobby, he was the family dog. As a matter of fact, we called my brother Robert “Robbie” because we didn’t want to confuse him with our dog. After all, Bobby, the dog, preceded Robert, the brother, and what’s right is right. We had several police dogs around our property, but they were more guard dogs than pets. One day, one of the police dogs gave birth to a litter of puppies, and in the litter, were two adorable white puppies with big brown eyes. One died, but the other lived. Wouldn’t you know it? We named the puppy Bob. I was starting to believe that every dog in the world was named Bob. I thought: At least Bob is a nice name. Bob, the police dog, turned out to be a very interesting dog. He was feisty from the get-go. When Bob was a puppy, he insisted on eating out of his father’s dish. It didn’t matter to Bob that his father growled and warned him to stay back. Bob kept eating. One day, his father had enough. He bit Bob’s ear. For the remainder of Bob’s life, he had a little nip out of his ear. We lived on one side of the river, and the town of St. Charles was located on the other side of the river. Actually, it was a long distance from our house into town. But Bob didn’t care. Every Sunday—at precisely the same time—he’d trot into town. His mission was to attend mass at the Catholic Church. He’d sit in the back pew and not bother the congregation. However, parishioners didn’t think a dog worshiping in the same sanctuary as “good Catholics” was exactly biblical. Attempts to shoo Bob out the back door were as much a part of the service as the liturgy. The fine Irish priest was aghast. He gushed, “Glory be! Don’t put that dog out. I’ve been trying to get a member of the Norris family into my church for years.” When my brother Brud was about twelve years old, he adopted a Welsh Terrier from the dog pound. I don’t remember the dog’s name, but fortunately it wasn’t Bob. This dog adored my brother. One day, my brother acted out, so my father marched upstairs to Brud’s room

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with every intention of disciplining him. Brud was comfortable in bed— reading. The dog was in his rightful place—curled up next to Brud. My father opened the door. GRRRRRR…GRRRRRR… GRRRRRR … was the only sound in the room. After my father finished his business, he stomped downstairs, snatched up his newspaper, and complained to my mother, “Have you ever tried to reprimand a child in a monotone?” You’re probably not surprised to learn that Norris family loyalty extended to all members of our family.

Lulu The Gentle Bear

ur pets weren’t limited to dogs. One year, my parents took a trip to Canada and came home with an orphaned black bear cub named Lulu. Lulu was a boy, but because he already had a name, my parents didn’t want to change it. Actually—truth be known— they didn’t know Lulu was a boy until a veterinarian set them straight. I guess in the whole scheme of things, it wouldn’t be fitting if Lulu, a bear, were exempt from the Norris family’s horrible name tradition. My parents had quite an experience getting Lulu home. During the day, Lulu rode in the car with them. So far, all was well. The problems started when they stopped at a motel for the night and rented Lulu a room of his own. My parents thought Lulu was cute, but they weren’t convinced the motel owner would share their opinion. Wisely, my mother waited in the car with the bear while my father went into the motel’s office and rented two rooms. My parents unloaded the car and settled into their room. Then they turned their attention to Lulu’s room. They didn’t have experience with a bear cub sleeping in a motel room, so they decided to play it safe and strip the sheets, blankets, and even the mattress off Lulu’s bed. Not seeing anything else that Lulu could possibly harm, they snuck her into the room, switched off the light, locked the door, and walked next door to their room.

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In the middle of the night, my mother sat straight up in bed. “Lester, wake up. What in the world? Listen to that strange howling coming from Lulu’s room.” My dad threw on his robe and rushed out into the dark night. Obviously, something was terribly wrong. He yanked opened Lulu’s door and flipped on the light. There was Lulu yowling at the top of his lungs. All four feet caught in the coils of his bedsprings certainly wasn’t Lulu’s idea of fun. This should have been an omen. Lulu’s problems were just beginning. The rest of the trip was uneventful. Once in Illinois, Lulu made his home in a big doghouse in our backyard. We bought him a collar and attached him to a very long chain. Today, when I think about Lulu, I actually feel sorry for him. During the wintertime, he’d go into his doghouse and do his best to do what bears do—hibernate. He’d come out for food. Then back into his doghouse he’d go. One winter, Dixie escaped from me and scampered into Lulu’s doghouse. I was terrified. My precious Dixie was in the doghouse with a bear. I had no idea what Lulu would do to my little dog. I stewed and waited. Then I stewed some more. Finally, out she came, but I couldn’t believe what I saw. When Dixie ran into Lulu’s doghouse she was wearing a little coat I thought was cute. Well, Dixie had other ideas about this cute coat, but she couldn’t take it off. Apparently, Lulu shared Dixie’s disgust about the coat because there Dixie stood—coatless. When Lulu did his annual spring cleaning, there on the lawn with all the straw and paraphernalia from his doghouse was Dixie’s little coat, and it was still buttoned up. How he got that coat—in one piece, without a bit of damage—off my dog is still a mystery. Around 1934—back when the Chicago Cubs were winning baseball games—Lulu was their mascot. During one apparently uneventful game, Mother decided she’d had enough. It was the ninth inning. The Cubbies were ahead. She was tired of fighting the pressing crowds that followed Lulu out of the stadium. It was time to leave. Well, you can guess what

One year, my parents took a trip to Canada and came home with an orphaned black bear cub named Lulu. 291

happened. Yes, the Cubs lost, and the press blamed Mother. Headlines blared the news: Mascot Missing! Cubs Hexed! Lulu was a gentle bear. He loved ice cream cones and honey on a stick. Of course, we indulged him. Lulu spent his days hanging around his doghouse and playing with his toys. He and Bob had a special bond. They’d wile away lazy summer afternoons snoozing in the fields with Lulu’s paw draped—almost protectively—over Bob’s chest. Nonetheless, Mother thought Lulu was getting rather large, and she worried that he might hurt my brother or another family member. She remembered the day Lulu broke his chain. Even though he didn’t hurt anyone or anything, he was—after all—a bear. So one day when my father was out of town at a Victory Garden meeting, Mother saw her chance. She gave Lulu to the zoo in Elgin, Illinois. Of course, Mother didn’t realize that during the war, zoos couldn’t afford to feed their animals. So of all the horrible things, the animals were poisoned with arsenic. Lulu survived his first dose of arsenic. Again, he made newspaper headlines. After that, he wasn’t so lucky. The zookeeper gave him a double dose of arsenic, and that was the end of Lulu. My father was very upset, but it was too late. There really wasn’t anything he could do about poor Lulu.

Devil Monkeys A Family Nemesis

’ve more or less blocked our monkeys from my mind. They certainly didn’t do anything to endear themselves to me. But my family’s pet story won’t be complete unless I at least mention our monkeys. We had one monkey that looked like a normal monkey. I don’t remember his species, but if there were a species of monkeys called “Devil Monkeys,” this monkey would be its poster child. He had a wonderful cage in the basement, but he didn’t like it and managed to escape its confines. As soon as anyone tried to catch him, he’d swing up to the ceiling, unscrew the light bulbs, and fling them

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at his potential captor. And I do mean “potential” captor. There you’d be—in complete darkness, dodging light bulbs, groping futilely for this obnoxious monkey. Then there was Bob’s monkey. I think this monkey was a spider monkey, but again I’m not sure of his species. What I am sure of is that this monkey was nasty, nasty, nasty. Anytime I’d come close to him, he’d bite me. That’s enough about our monkeys. I’d rather tell you the story about Secu, our chimpanzee.

Secu and Bedula Chimps Extraordinaire

n 1949, Dad’s November birthday was coming up, and as was our tradition, family members traveled from various parts of the country to celebrate his birthday and Thanksgiving. George and I talked and talked about what to get my father for his birthday, but we didn’t have any great ideas. So I called my siblings and asked, “What do you think we should get Dad for his birthday?” Joann thought about our dilemma, and in a few days she called me back. “You know, Dad always wanted a chimpanzee.” My brothers and I were excited. This was a great idea. However, no one needed to remind me: If we knew what was good for us, we’d speak to Mother first. Mother listened. Then she said, “I don’t mind if you buy your dad a chimpanzee. But it’s up to you to find it and figure out how to get it to St. Charles. If you can do this, fine. If not, think of another present.” My siblings didn’t miss a beat. They looked at me and said almost in tandem, “Lal, you’re the eldest. Naturally, it’s your job to find the chimpanzee. And remember—this is something Dad always wanted.” Okay. I was hooked, but undoubtedly I faced a huge challenge. My first thought was: Where in the world do I even begin to find a chimpanzee? I decided the logical place to start was the Brookfield Zoo. I must admit that I felt rather odd calling the zoo and asking for

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I must admit that I felt rather odd calling the zoo and asking for a chimpanzee. But this was important. This was something Dad always wanted. a chimpanzee. But this was important. This was something Dad always wanted. I dialed the phone. “Hello. May I please speak to whoever is in charge of the chimpanzees?” I was transferred to a pleasant man. He assured me that my request wasn’t as unusual as I thought. Apparently, people bought chimpanzees frequently. I felt more confident. “Well, sir, do you have any baby chimps for sale?” “We often do, but right now we don’t have any. I suggest you call the Bronx Zoo and speak with Mr. Trevlick. He may have one. That’s where we get all our chimps.” I thanked him profusely and called the Bronx Zoo. “Mr. Trevlick, this is Lavern Gaynor speaking. My family wants to buy a chimpanzee for my father’s birthday. Do you have any baby chimps for sale?” To my delight, he didn’t hesitate. “Yes. I have two babies. One is about a year-and-a-half. The other is about four.” Given my experience with pets, all I could think about was the age of dogs. After a year-and-a-half, a dog is pretty much full grown. I said, “But, Mr. Trevlick, I want a baby chimpanzee.” He—obviously being more wise in the ways of chimpanzees than I—replied, “But these are babies.” Still, I wasn’t convinced. George and I talked it over and decided someone needed to take a look at these chimps. His brother and sisterin-law, who lived in Haiti, were visiting New York at the time. If they would agree to take a look at these baby chimps, we’d feel much better. I phoned them, and they agreed immediately. “No problem. We’d love to look at the chimpanzees for you.” A few days later I received a phone call from my sister-in-law. She was excited. “Yes. They really are babies. I like the younger one best. He’s a charming chimp.”

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I said, “Fine. Done,” and hung up the phone to make arrangements to have what I hoped would turn out to be a “charming chimp” flown to St. Charles. At that time, the Flying Tigers Airline transported animals to what is now O’Hare International. Back then it was still a marine/air force base that was used for the Chicago airport. Anyway, that was the destination point for our “charming chimp,” and George and my brother Brud were recruited to make the trip to the city and pick him up. The rest of the family pretended it was a normal evening. I put DeeDee, who was two, to bed. The family had been warned, “Don’t mention ‘chimpanzee’ in front of DeeDee. I don’t think she can say ‘chimpanzee,’ but you never know. Just tell her that we have a secret for Bapa.” DeeDee went to bed wide-eyed with excitement about Bapa’s secret. George and Brud arrived at the airport and were asked, “Are you the people supposed to pick up this chimpanzee?” They acknowledged their responsibility and were directed to a hanger where they were shown a large crate that was way too big for the two of them to carry without help. Fortunately, airport personnel were fascinated with the contents of the crate and agreed to help hoist it into their vehicle. About one o’clock in the morning, George and Brud arrived home with their precious cargo. We struggled to drag the crate into the kitchen. We stared at the crate. We stared at each other. “Now what?” someone asked. George found a hammer and pried the top off the crate. Protected by a leather jacket and heavy gloves, he reached gingerly inside. We were uncertain. No one knew what to expect. What size was this chimp? Would he refuse to come out? Would he bite? Would he scratch? As soon as the top of the crate was loose, this little fellow, who was all decked-out in an adorable turtleneck sweater, sprung out. He blinked in the light and without a moment’s hesitation, jumped into my arms and grabbed me around the neck. His unspoken words were clear: Mommy, I’m home. We decided we couldn’t wait until morning. For some reason, Dad was in bed and sound asleep. This was most unusual. Habitually,

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if anyone else was up and about, so was my father. He never wanted to miss any fun. We trooped into Father’s bedroom, and I put the chimp on his chest. Dad opened his eyes. He squinted. He opened his eyes wider. He blinked. He closed his eyes. We waited. We wondered. Dad opened his eyes again. No one dared to breathe. Then Dad gave the chimp a wide grin. We let out a collective breath. This was, indeed, the birthday gift Dad always wanted. Dad got out of bed and sat in a chair so he could get a better look at his gift. I left the room to wake up DeeDee. We didn’t want her to miss out on the fun. DeeDee was wide awake. I said, “Honey, come with me. Bapa’s secret is here.” DeeDee wiggled with excitement. Let me back up and explain that I had been trying to teach her manners, but she had so far ignored my attempts to get her to curtsey and say, “Hello,” when she greeted someone. I carried DeeDee into Dad’s bedroom and stood her on the floor. No one had any idea what this two-year-old would do. After all, a chimpanzee wasn’t exactly something she saw every day. DeeDee didn’t hesitate. She toddled across the room, took the chimp’s hand, curtseyed, and said, “How do you do, Bapa’s secu?” My dad laughed. “That’s it. We’re going to name him Secu.” And that’s how Secu, the chimp, became a much loved member of the Norris family. About the second night Secu was with us, DeeDee had one of her many childhood bouts with croup. She coughed and coughed and coughed. Of course, we were concerned about DeeDee, but now, we had another baby in our family. We worried that Secu might be infected with DeeDee’s croup, so we did the logical thing: We called the veterinarian. He politely—but firmly—informed us, “Veterinarians don’t take care of chimps. You’ll have to call a people’s doctor.” Well, this seemed strange to us, but when our pediatrician was summoned to take care of DeeDee, I said, “Doctor, I’m afraid Secu might get sick from DeeDee’s croup. What should we do?” Much to my surprise and relief, he smiled and replied, “I will take care of the chimp. Actually, I’m interested in taking care of him.”

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Luckily, we had a plan because Secu did come down with pneumonia. As promised, DeeDee’s pediatrician cared for him, and Secu survived his pneumonia. I was amazed that Secu came with so many directions. The zoo keeper was insistent. “Each afternoon, your chimp must be served tea. Along with his tea, give him four peeled grapes and a piece of bread.” Mother and I did as we were told. We carried Secu into the living room and prepared to serve him tea. Not wanting to be left out, DeeDee joined us. On the first afternoon—at precisely the appointed teatime—she showed up in the living room accompanied by her doll. Now, DeeDee didn’t like dolls. But Secu did. He picked up DeeDee’s doll, examined it, decided it was a wonderful toy, and tucked it under his arm. As soon as DeeDee saw Secu with her doll, she cried and cried, “My dolly! My dolly!” A tug-of-war ensued. Of course, I stopped them immediately. I wasn’t sure what Secu might do and didn’t want to take any chances. I’d heard that chimps could be aggressive and envisioned him biting or doing something even worse to DeeDee. My intervention meant Secu won and was allowed to keep the doll. I pacified DeeDee the best I could. “Honey, be patient. We’ll get your dolly back.” About this time, Secu’s tea tray arrived. Secu looked at his plate. He looked at DeeDee. He picked up the piece of bread. He looked at DeeDee. Very slowly, he divided the bread—exactly down the middle. He looked at DeeDee. He looked at the grapes. He moved the grapes around on the plate. He looked at DeeDee. Then his eyes lit up. He picked up two grapes, the half-piece of bread, and with the doll tucked tightly under his arm, walked across the room to DeeDee and offered her a fair share of his tea. My chin dropped. All I could think was: Oh, my word. This chimpanzee and my daughter are about the same age. I just looked at Mother. She looked back at me. We were quiet. Then I couldn’t resist. “This worries me,” was all I said. Mother just nodded. After Secu recovered from pneumonia, Mother and Dad decided he needed to live in a warmer climate, so they drove him to Florida where

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Mother and Secu, Keewaydin, 1950

he spent the rest of his life as a rather unique guest of the Keewaydin Club. Because Mother and Dad didn’t live at the club year round, they employed a couple and a single man named Luther to stay on the island and watch things during the summer season. One of Luther’s jobs was to care for Secu. 064 Even though Luther loved the little chimp, he couldn’t resist teasing him. As soon as Secu saw Luther grab the hose and laugh, he knew what to expect. Secu hated to get squirted. He hated Luther’s laughter. He was furious. But what was he to do? Secu was padlocked in a cage. Luther was free. All Secu could do was fume and bide his time. One day, the couple went to the mainland for their day off and left Luther and Secu alone on the island. This was a perfect opportunity

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for Luther to thoroughly clean Secu’s cage. With no one else on the island, Luther decided it was safe to let Secu out of his cage. After all, the chimp deserved to run around and enjoy a little temporary freedom. The plan was a good one. Secu roamed the property. Luther went to work. Neither paid any attention to the other—or so Luther thought. It was a beautiful Southwest Florida day, and Luther was actually enjoying the physical labor. He was on his hands and knees in the cage, soapsuds up to his elbows, whistling a tune when suddenly, Slam! Then, Click! He lifted his head, turned around, and muttered to himself, “What in the world?” Sure enough. The door to the cage was padlocked shut. The Hhooo…Hhooo…Hhooos he heard were the sounds of Secu’s wild celebration. But the chimp’s fun was far from over. He grabbed the hose. Now Luther knew what to expect. He hated to get squirted. He hated Secu’s chimp chuckles. He was furious. But what was he to do? Luther was padlocked in a cage. Secu was free. All Luther could do was sit down and wait. Many hours later the couple returned. Luther regained his freedom and at least a portion of his dignity. I guess the moral of this story—at least from Secu’s perspective—is this: Turnabout is, indeed, fair play. It was interesting to watch Secu. He was very generous. When you gave him something, he returned the favor. You had no choice but to accept the toy or whatever else Secu decided to hand to you. He just had a way about him—a chimp way of insisting, “Here. This is yours. Now, take it.” Secu loved watches. He’d take the watch off my father’s arm, wind it very gently, and return it to my father. This always amazed me. Secu also loved children. When my son Brud was about two years old, Secu grabbed him and pulled him rather roughly up against the wires of his cage. Of course, Brud was terrified. I must tell you that it sort of frightened me, too. But my father was standing next to the cage and simply said, “Secu, no!” and Secu stopped immediately. He wasn’t trying to be mean. He just didn’t realize his own strength. When Secu was about six years old, Dad took a business trip to New York. Mother didn’t want to go and decided she’d stay on the island while he was away. A few days after Dad left, Mother received a telegram. It read: On my way to island—Stop—Bringing brunette—Stop—See you soon.

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My mother thought: Oh, my goodness. Who in the world is this brunette? Well, being a wonderful hostess, Mother did the best she could to get ready for the mysterious brunette. She put flowers and other little niceties into one of the best guest rooms and waited. Hopefully, the brunette—whoever she was—would be comfortable on the island. Mother heard the boat chugging up to the dock and ran out to welcome her guest. Here was Dad, walking down the ramp, holding the hand of a brunette—a brunette chimpanzee. “Dee, I’d like you to meet Bedula.” Bedula was as nasty as Secu was sweet. She was infamous for her terrible temper tantrums. Secu and Bedula shared a cage. Toward the top was a shelf with a platform. Secu kept his favorite toys on the platform, and when he wanted to sleep, he’d grab his blanket and climb up onto the platform. But not anymore. Bedula demanded the blanket. Bedula demanded the toys. Bedula demanded to sleep on the platform. And if she didn’t get her way, watch out. More times than I can count, Secu was the victim of her dreadful temper. Until Bedula, Secu’s life was calm, idyllic. After Bedula, his life was chaotic, frenzied. Bedula would steal his toys, and when he tried to get them back, she’d bite him. Secu was gentle and kind. He’d put his arm around his tormentor, hold her hand, and walk her back and forth in the cage. After she calmed down a bit, everything would be all right for a while. Then she’d be right back at it—harassing Secu. I think Dad had hopes that Secu and Bedula would become romantically involved, but chimps don’t have any interest in the opposite sex until they are at least twelve years old. Sadly—for all of us—Secu died when he was eleven. One evening, one of the Keewaydin employees came banging on the door with the bad news, “Mr. Norris! Come quick. One of the chimps is dead.” Dad asked, “Which one? Which one?” “I think it’s Bedula.” “Oh, thank heavens,” was Dad’s immediate reply. But when he got to the cage, he knew. “No, it’s my Secu.” We finally figured out Secu’s death was caused by an unusual cold snap that hit Florida. Secu hadn’t been exposed to the cold since he was a baby in St. Charles. We decided that because of his bout with pneumonia, his heart wasn’t as strong as it should have been. Especially for my father,

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losing Secu was the same as losing any other family member, but we all missed our sweet Secu. After Secu’s death, Bedula lived on the island for a good number of years, but it was never the same. Finally, Dad and Mother decided to give her to a zoo in Dania, Florida. A few years later, on their way back to St. Charles from Keewaydin, they decided to stop and see Bedula. The zookeeper greeted them and directed them to the chimp island. Because there were so many chimps and they basically all looked alike, he asked my parents if they wanted him to point out Bedula. Joann, who was with them, replied, “No thank you. We know Bedula. She’s that one—that one right there.” The zookeeper was amazed. “You’re right. But with all the chimps on the island, how can you pick out Bedula so easily?” By then Bedula had a baby. She was steadily whacking her baby all over its little body. My sister explained to the zookeeper, “We finally figured out what’s wrong with Bedula. She was an abused child. She abused Secu, and now she’s abusing her own child.” The zookeeper simply nodded his head. He knew Joann was right.

EJ The Ultimate Winner

ow I want to tell you a true confessions pet story. As I already mentioned, I’ve always loved horses, and when I was a young girl my godfather, Edward James Baker, indulged my passion by giving me several horses. My father said over and over, “I just don’t get it. Ed buys the horses, and I’m responsible for the upkeep. Something’s wrong with this picture.” No matter. The horses kept coming. One of my horses was a beautiful little racehorse that apparently wasn’t much of a winner for Uncle Ed. But I didn’t care. I named my horse EJ after Uncle Ed. It took many hours and lots of help, but eventually, EJ was trained to the saddle. All was well until I decided to show EJ in the hometown

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horse show. Each year, St. Charles transformed the old high school football field into a show ring, and hundreds of townspeople bought tickets. English riding, Western riding, show jumping, dressage, and reining were all featured events. The horse show was a small-town big deal. I was excited and just knew EJ and I were destined to become local celebrities. I only overlooked one tiny detail: When it was time for a horse to leave the ring, the judge blew a loud horn. Well, EJ—being a former trotter—thought the horn indicated the start of a race. The horn blew, and EJ did as he was supposed to do. We galloped around and around the ring—faster and faster we ran. Attempts to catch us were futile. All I could think was: Uncle Ed got rid of EJ way too soon. 065 I had no choice but to sit to a trot and hold on for dear life. I kept wishing the judge would stop blowing the horn so I could get my horse under control. But he didn’t. Each time the horn sounded, EJ ran faster. Spectators took their lives in their hands and tried to catch us, but as we went roaring by, all they could do was jump out of our way. Finally, somehow, the horn blower heard me yell, “Stop! Stop! Stop!” My father was mortified. But EJ? That day, he was a winner.

My Girls Spoiled Rotten

ets continue to be an important part of my life. I now have four Yorkies. After George died, I thought: Well, because of my age maybe I should move into a retirement community. I investigated Moorings Park and some others. They’re lovely. But not a single one would accept four Yorkies. I immediately scratched that idea off my list. Then I considered apartments, but they weren’t too interesting. Only one choice remained: I’d build a house. I wasn’t about to give up Bambi, Bounce, Snuggles, and Pumpkin—my girls. I’ve owned Yorkies for many, many years. I bought my first one in London and flew her to Rome to live with George and me. This

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was about 1968, and I’ve loved Yorkies ever since. They were funny, charming little companions to our German Shepherds. When George was sick, two of my Yorkies were diagnosed with kidney failure. They needed fluids, but I wasn’t good at sticking them with needles. Fortunately, George’s nurses were willing and able to give my dogs the shots they needed. The smaller one—the one that was really my pet and followed me everywhere—died in a couple of months. The larger one lived for about a year and a half. Without a doubt, it was because of the nurses that my Yorkies lived longer, more comfortable lives. I’ll do anything for my girls. During the last few months, there have been warnings about the dangers of commercial dog food. Apparently, commercial dog foods are contaminated. This scares me. No way will I take a chance on something happening to my girls. So now I prepare their food. I make a concoction of carrots, chicken, cauliflower, and cottage cheese, and they never complain about my cooking. This takes a lot of time, but I don’t care. My friends laugh at the sign on my front porch that reads: “Don’t let the dogs out no matter what they tell you.” Yes. I admit it. My girls are spoiled. 066 When I come home, my girls are excited to see me. No matter what sort of mood I’m in, they wag their tails and give me little licks. It’s as if they’re trying to make me happy. And it works. They’re great company, and I love them dearly. I have to laugh at a conversation I had with Judith, who interviewed me for this book. She said, “So, Lal, recently Leona Helmsley died and left her dog, Trouble, twelve million dollars, but she didn’t leave a cent to her two of her grandchildren. Do you have any comment about her decision?” I didn’t miss a beat. I answered, “Oh my. I better not tell my girls. I need to revise my will because they’re not in it!” We laughed, but it did give me cause to think. Quite frankly, I’ve often thought about what I’d do if my home were on fire. People take weird things. But me? There’s no doubt: The first thing I’d do is make sure my girls were safely out the door. Then if there were time, who knows? I’d probably grab some pictures. I can remember only a very short period in my life when I didn’t have a dog. George and I had dogs all of our married life, and my children

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My Girls, Left to right: Pumpkin, Bambi, Bounce, Snuggles

always had a dog or a cat. It is wonderful for people to have pets in their lives—especially if they’re alone. Even if it’s only your bird twittering, you think: Ah, there’s something alive in the house with me. Pets take away emptiness. I know. I have my girls.

I admit it. My girls are spoiled.

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Community Involvement

Dedication Day, George H. Gaynor Building, Me and DeeDee, Naples, Florida, 2003

Community Involvement A Selected Few

o question. It’s my responsibility to continue the Norris family legacy of gracious giving. I am, however, selective. People ask me for money regularly. Some days every time the phone rings, the caller wants money from me. I’ve counted. I’ll get up to five phone calls an hour from people who want me to donate to one thing or another. I think: I can do this just so long and depend on caller ID to screen my calls. There are many worthy causes, but I focus my efforts on a selected few. I have my favorite organizations, and I give to those. Three basic areas interest me: education, children, and the environment. I also pay attention to issues that were important to my parents. When someone comes to me asking for help—whether that help be in the form of my money, my time, or my credibility—I want to know who this person is, and I want to know about the organization. It’s important to me that people in the organization make a commitment to that organization. I won’t work with organizations that are fly-by-night. They must be solid, substantial organizations that will be around for the long haul. I look at what the organization has accomplished and, quite frankly, who is involved. I will only work with people I consider to be trustworthy, honest, good people. People and their values are very important to me. I want to know where the organization’s current funding comes from

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There are many worthy causes, but I focus my efforts on a selected few.

and what it has accomplished with its funds. If the people aren’t sincere, if they don’t give from the heart, if they don’t take hold and actually do something, I won’t give my support. I get upset when people pretend to be altruistic, but in reality their motivation is self-centered—they’re in it for one thing and one thing only—to get their name out there. Making a contribution to your community is important; it’s your obligation. If you feel the community is important enough to call “home,” if you take advantage of what the community has to offer, then it’s your responsibility to give back to this community. Let’s face it— your community gives to you. You should give to your community. It’s the right thing to do. One day, Lou Traina, my friend and the VP of University Advancement for Hodges University, said to me, “Lal, it seems to me that there is a common thread to the organizations you support. You’re willing to jump in and take risks with organizations before others see their potential. If you believe in an organization’s mission—even if others question its success—you’re willing to get behind it, to help out when it’s operating on a shoestring, to support it when it’s struggling. And because of you and your gifts, the organization succeeds. Look at Youth Haven, the YMCA, then-International College. All these organizations were at critical crossroads when you stepped up to the plate and gave them the funds they needed. But there’s more. Along with your vision for an organization, you have a strong business sense. Do you recognize your talents? Do you consider yourself to be a visionary?” I was flattered, but I had never thought of myself from that perspective. I know I have done things that weren’t very popular, but I never called myself a “visionary.” My father was a gifted visionary, and he had a great deal of influence on me. So maybe some of his abilities did rub off on me. I do know when I like what I see, I think: Okay. I’m in. And I proceed with whatever it is I’ve decided to do.

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Now I’ll tell you a bit about the community organizations I support.

Hodges University Lifelong Learning

n 2006, I decided to endow the president’s chair at what was thenInternational College. It’s true. I could have selected other schools. But I didn’t. I had been involved with International College a little

Endowment Ceremony, Me with Terry McMahan, President of Hodges University, 2006

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over ten years, but up until the endowment, my connection was basically from a distance. One day, I received a letter from Mike Volpe, who at the time was on the Board of Trustees. The letter explained that the college was starting a Humanitarian of the Year Award, and that I’d been selected as the first recipient. I was flattered but really didn’t know much about the college. So I thought: Well, I’d better check this out. I knew classes were held in an old shopping center. I must admit that my first impression of that shopping center wasn’t so great. I was a trustee of Northwestern University, and when I pulled my car into the asphalt parking lot and set my emergency break so it wouldn’t roll back into the street, my only thought was: My. My. This is quite a change from Northwestern. Nonetheless, I locked my car door and headed toward the building. I thought: Well, I’m here. I might as well take a look. I pulled open the typical, heavy shopping center glass doors and took a quick look around. I saw a steep set of stairs but no classrooms. I thought: Oh, my word! This is odd. Nonetheless, I was curious and continued on my mission. Terry McMahan and John White were waiting at the top of the steps. They gave me a tour and talked with me. My visit was in the morning, and back then students weren’t around until the evening, so I only saw one student. I thought: This is very strange. But I didn’t say a word. My tour continued. We went into the library, and I was introduced to Melanie Hainsworth. She was vivacious and took her time to explain the Internet to me, which, by the way, went right over my head. Then Terry and John started telling me about the school’s plans for the future. It was at this point that I thought: Well. Well. Isn’t this interesting? I might like this International College after all. As I continued talking with Terry and John, I realized that my initial impression was far from accurate. Once I got by the strangeness of the building and really started listening to what they were saying, a different story began to unfold. Terry told me about the adult learners the college attracted. That was it. I was hooked. When I received the Humanitarian of the Year Award, I felt honored. At the time, I didn’t know if I could help, but from what I was starting to understand, I knew that if I could, I would. Over the years, I watched the college closely. I liked what I saw, and my interest increased. I remember the day Terry told me about the plans to buy the Methodist

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Hodges University is unique because it gives full advantage to adult learners.

church on Seagate. He was excited about enlarging the college and felt sure that acquiring this building was exactly the right move. As often happens with complex transactions, the plans fell through. I remember sitting at home and watching the city commission meeting on television. When Terry heard the decision, he was so disappointed his face fell. His shoulders drooped. He sank down in his chair. I felt badly for him because I knew how hard he and everyone on his staff had worked to get this building. The next day I called Terry and offered encouragement. “In my life, I’ve learned that sometimes disappointments turn out for the best. You just never know when something better will come along.” And for the college, my consolation held true. I don’t see sad faces anymore. I continued to watch. I observed that people at the college didn’t give up. They had basically nothing, but they kept doing the right things. They kept on going. Then Lou Traina spoke to me about the president’s chair. I thought: Well, I believe schools should have some type of endowment. Programs must continue. If a school has to switch presidents, the administration has to search for funds so they can bring in someone who is equally qualified. This isn’t a good thing. It can hurt programs. But if there’s an endowment, finding a replacement is less of a problem. My mind was made up. 067 I certainly hope Terry McMahan doesn’t leave. In my mind, he is the right person to lead what has grown—transitioned—from International College to Hodges University. It amazes me that he started with a small group of people—started with almost nothing—and grew the university to what it is today. He focused on what he wanted to do and brought in the right people to help him. Many people who started with him are still with him. This is a major accomplishment that can only be achieved by a special person. And in this case, that special person is President Terry McMahan.

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Hodges University is unique because it gives full advantage to adult learners. Adults have the opportunity to get an education, and this allows them to go out and get better jobs. This, in turn, helps their families. And this keeps people—very qualified people—in our community. Before Terry and the programs he and his staff developed at Hodges University, people didn’t stay in our area. They went elsewhere for jobs. Hodges is making us a better all-around community. I’m confident that my support of Hodges University is good for the university and good for our community. Hodges University is doing exactly what needs to be done to create leaders in our community. I’m not exactly sure why the Hodges University building in Naples is named after George. One day, I was asked if I minded. Of course I didn’t mind. It was an honor. I think probably it’s because—like me— George knew this is a wonderful institution. He was impressed with how the school makes a difference in our community. George told me time and time again, “I sure wish International College had been around when I was a young man.” I remember the day the building was dedicated. It was a typical hot, humid Southwest Florida afternoon, and the ceremony was held outside. I was emotional but doing my best to control my tears and listen to what the speakers were saying. My efforts worked only marginally. About half the time, I was numb. Fred Nerone, Dean of the Kenneth Oscar Johnson School of Business, and I were standing in front of the building talking with people when suddenly, I thought: Oh my! I’m being invaded! Of all things, fire ants were crawling up my legs. Poor Fred. He didn’t quite know what to do. Fortunately—for me—he traded his dignity for my comfort and swatted the ants. Ants or no ants, when the George H. Gaynor Building sign was revealed and people applauded, I experienced one of my life’s proudest moments. 068 Having the building named for George is symbolic—symbolic of his beliefs, symbolic of his legacy. George and I agreed about education. If he were still here, I know he’d support the message I’m offering to the students at Hodges University: Recognize how fortunate you are. You’re fortunate to have this great opportunity to learn in your own community and to stay in your own community. You don’t have to move elsewhere. Florida Gulf Coast University is different than Hodges. It’s geared toward students coming directly out of high school. It doesn’t

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deal with the working mother, or the single parent, or the adult learner. Hodges does. For this, you should be grateful. I expect Hodges University to continue its leadership and, quite frankly, to go on forever. The university is a wonderful institution. It is doing so much to help our community which, in turn, reaches out to the entire country which, in turn, reaches out to the entire world. The university must continue doing what it’s doing, and then strive to become better and better. Things change continually. This means that Hodges University must stay current and even ahead of the times. That’s my expectation. And I have every confidence that it will be met. I know Hodges University is expanding its curriculum. It is offering many more courses—many more different courses. Business courses are being expanded. Other programs are being expanded. Everyone who works at the university realizes that, in order to keep up with the changing world, program expansion is necessary. One never knows what is around the corner or what is going to be needed. For example, when I was in school, we didn’t even think of the Internet, but look at what has happened. My generation is left behind— but not Hodges. Hodges University keeps up with the future. For one thing, just look at the Interdisciplinary Studies program. I know Ken Johnson, the namesake of the school of business, wanted to see an engineering school at Hodges. I told him, “Ken, be patient. This takes time.” I don’t know when it will happen. But I have every confidence it will happen. Along with the administration, the faculty at Hodges University has a huge responsibility. It’s the faculty members who are in front of the students day after day after day. They shape students’ lives. They have a moral responsibility to model the ethical standards that students will convey to our community. I know moral standards have changed a great deal since I was in school, but that doesn’t really matter. What matters is for faculty members to display—to use—the standards established by the university. Students will learn from the faculty’s ways of behaving and their ways of teaching. The main standard I’d like to see the faculty of Hodges University model is trustworthiness. Trustworthiness. Honesty. Sincerity. These standards are all important. Students must be able to trust the faculty. I realize faculty members have a lot going on in their lives. They teach.

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They have families. They contribute to the community. They continue their own educations. They care. I believe this is a unique group of individuals—individuals who amaze me and who I respect. Sometimes I don’t know how they do everything they do to help students. But they do. I give them a lot of credit. When I heard the news that Earl and Thelma Hodges made their wonderful contribution to International College and the school was renamed Hodges University, I thought: That’s wonderful. It’s one of the best things to ever happen in our community. I was as excited—maybe more excited—than anyone. Quite frankly, I wasn’t that enthused about the name International College. I didn’t think it communicated what the school is all about. But Hodges University? That’s powerful. I like it. I also like Earl and Thelma Hodges. My parents knew Thelma when she was a nurse at the first hospital in Naples. They spoke highly of her, and when they got to know Earl, they spoke highly of him also. Long before I knew either Thelma or Earl, I knew about them. I knew my parents respected them. My parents told me, “Thelma and Earl Hodges are wonderful people.” When I met the Hodges, I understood why my parents said what they did. Just think about it: Here is a couple who met in Naples, got married in Naples, built their business in Naples, made their fortune in Naples, and regularly contributed to the Naples community. Now, they decide to continue their legacy of generosity in one of the most meaningful ways possible—lifelong learning. Nothing more wonderful could happen to the institution or the community. I’m confident that with the Hodges’s generous gift, the administration, staff, and faculty at Hodges University will have resources to help them do an even better job of educating both young and adult students. And that, in turn, will make our already wonderful community an even better place to live, to work, and to raise a family. With my whole heart, I believe what goes around, comes around. After all, that’s part of the Norris family legacy. One day, Lou Traina commented to me, “You know, Lal, if it weren’t for your first gift to then-International College, we wouldn’t be where we are today. Instead of Hodges University, we’d probably still be a school operating on a shoestring out of a shopping center. Your gift gave the institution credibility in the donor community. People

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began to say, ‘Wow! Maybe this is a real college.’ If it weren’t for their scholarships, the majority of students you’ve supported wouldn’t be able to complete their educations. I can honestly say that if the scholarships weren’t there, they probably couldn’t manage.” I thought about what Lou said and remembered the beautiful box full of letters from students thanking me for all I’ve done for them. There are hundreds of letters in this box, and I treasure every one of them. But I get embarrassed by recognition. I don’t do what I do for recognition. It just comes naturally. However, hearing that through my gifts, I’ve touched hundreds and hundreds of lives makes me feel good. Touching lives—that’s more important to me than anything else. I want to comment here on the meaning of an education. Over the years, the notion of a good education has changed drastically. There is little comparison between what was available when I was in school and what is available today. In many ways, students today learn more than I did. My education was very structured. But then again, maybe that’s not so bad. Some of today’s young students need structure. Without it, they flounder. They may end up with a degree, but their education isn’t what it could be. Then there are the students who know what they’re doing. They are self-motivated, self-directed. They end up with a great education. I’m concerned about the ones who flounder. There’s no doubt in my mind—education is important. An education is instrumental for making solid life decisions. Because of my strong belief in a good education, I’m willing to help people achieve their educational goals. If a person needs help and if I believe what they’re pursuing is worthwhile, I’ll offer resources. To some, I’ll give money. To others, I’ll give advice. And my advice is this: Never stop learning. The more you learn, the broader your horizons become. If you were a student struggling with life’s demands and you came to me and said, “Lal, I’m quitting. School is too much for me to handle,” I’d talk with you. I’d say, “Focus on one particular goal. If you stay focused and keep working on that one particular thing—if you don’t waiver—working through your struggles will become easier. Stop and remember why you wanted an education in the first place. Then stay focused on that reason and work toward that goal. From time to time, everyone gets off track. When this happens to you—and it will—pull yourself back in and re-

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focus on your original goal. Try not to think about other things. Think about what you’re doing today and go forward with that. Don’t worry about what happened in the past. You can learn from your past mistakes, but you can’t undo them. What’s done is done. Decide how you can base your future on what you’re doing today.” When my son Brud attended school in Switzerland, he made friends with young boys from Hungary who had been forced to flee their country. All that these boys had left in the world was a few photo albums. One day, Brud was looking through their albums and commented on the beautiful chateaus and all the wonderful things they’d left behind in Hungary. One young man looked over Brud’s shoulder and said, “Yes. That’s true. When the Communists took over our country, we fled with only the clothes on our backs and the few things that we could carry. It wasn’t much. But I’m fortunate.” Brud didn’t understand. “You’re fortunate?” “That’s right,” his friend answered. “I’m fortunate because my parents have an education, and now I’m getting an education. I speak several languages, and I can get by anywhere in the world. No one can take my education away from me, and that’s the most important lesson my parents taught me.” When Brud came home on his school break, he said to me, “Mother, do you know the most important thing you and Dad can give me?” I wasn’t sure what to expect. “What’s that, dear?” “An education,” was all he asked for. Brud was only fifteen years old, but he never forgot the lesson—and neither did I.

Northwestern University An Institution with Vision

y family’s involvement with Northwestern University goes back many years. My father was a trustee at Northwestern. Then my brother Brud became Northwestern’s youngest

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As a trustee, my main joy was to be in a position where I could help students receive an education and become leaders of our country

trustee. Brud did lots of work with the students at Northwestern. When he died, my parents acknowledged his interest in the students by donating the Norris University Center—the student services building. This building memorializes Brud. Before this building was constructed, the students didn’t have a place to congregate. One year when I lived overseas, a Northwestern representative contacted me and asked me to be a trustee. I thought: Here I am sitting in Belgium. Just how does this work? But it did. I’ve forgotten exactly what my title was. I think it was “Overseas Representative” or something like that. I do remember it was a special nomination allowing me to be a distance-trustee. Then when I returned to the States and settled in Florida, I was able to attend meetings on Northwestern’s campus. In both situations, I was happy to be part of this wonderful university. As a trustee of a university, your first responsibility is to keep the university solvent. Equally important, you make decisions about the professors and influence the students. My main joy was to be in a position where I could help students receive an education and become leaders of our country. Now that’s exciting. Northwestern is a wonderful institution. It has a great deal of vision. For example, students at Northwestern—particularly students in the sciences—have the opportunity to work as interns with businesses in the community. Armed with this experience, they go on and advance their careers. I think this shows Northwestern’s tremendous foresight. The football team, however, is another story. Northwestern isn’t known for its great football team. Every so often, the team sort of sparks, but usually the Wildcats don’t strike fear in the hearts of their opponents. Because the winning seasons are few and far between, not many football players are interested in wearing Northwestern’s blue and white uniform. But I must tell you that the ones who do are all very well educated. After I turned seventy years old—and that was many years ago—my active involvement with Northwestern stopped. It’s protocol. When a

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trustee turns seventy, he or she is put out to pasture. I still get information from Northwestern, and even though I’m technically “out to pasture” and haven’t been to a meeting for a long time, I’m still interested in Northwestern University.

Appreciation Gift from Youth Haven Children

Youth Haven An Extensive Echelon of Services

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y involvement with Youth Haven started about thirty years ago. Over the years, I sat on the Board of Directors, and one year I served as the Board’s president. Although my actual day-to-day participation isn’t as active as it used to be, I’m still interested in Youth Haven and the extensive echelon of services it provides.

I remember back in the early days, Youth Haven was very different than it is today. It had a single building with one side for girls and one side for boys. The director and his family lived in a separate cottage. My first impression of Youth Haven was positive. After my tour, I thought: My. This is very nice. It’s well run, and the children are all neat and clean. In retrospect, I realized that I was comparing it to the home for underprivileged children that I volunteered in during the war years. But no matter how I looked at Youth Haven, taking care of children ranging in age from infants through teenagers was quite the undertaking. I knew immediately that everyone at Youth Haven worked very hard. Originally, Youth Haven accepted private placements—families actually left their children at the facility. I remember one typical family: They moved to Naples without much money, so it was difficult for them to find a place to live. It seemed that every place available required them to provide the first and second month’s rent. Then the mother became ill and was hospitalized. The father was desperate. He had to work, but with his wife in the hospital, he had no one to take care of their children. Finally, he took their children to Youth Haven, and Youth Haven took them in. As I recall, the children stayed at Youth Haven for a long time. Eventually, the mother was released from the hospital, and after she spent more time recovering at home, the family was reunited and able to get back on its feet. If it weren’t for Youth Haven, I don’t know how this family would have managed. Back in its early days the children stayed at Youth Haven until they were eighteen, and then they’d be out on their own. I’d sit and think: It seems to me that this is sort of like throwing them to the wolves. We need to provide an incentive for them to go on and get more schooling. So I initiated a scholarship program that allowed them to receive an education at either a college or vocational school that led to employment.

Pilar was a girl who simply needed a little help—a little encouragement—to create a happy, productive life. 321

I’ll always remember Pilar. She was one of the scholarship recipients who said, “You know, it’s the idea that someone cares enough about me to take an interest in my education.” Well, Pilar used her scholarship and grants to complete her education at the University of Florida. She’s now married and has a little boy, and I’m pleased to tell you that we still keep in touch. Pilar is a great person. She simply needed a little help—a little encouragement—to create a happy, productive life for herself. The legal system dictates how Youth Haven operates. In the past, volunteers took care of the children. However, as laws changed, so did Youth Haven’s procedures. Today, the law requires a degreed staff member to work with the children. In addition, the law has limited the number of children who can be assigned to each staff member. This, of course, changes the programs and services Youth Haven provides. Nonetheless, its mission and its accomplishments are still impressive and important to me.

Naples Community Hospital An Important Lesson

y parents were among the first contributors to Naples Community Hospital. They selected the hospital project for two reasons: They’d built a hospital in St. Charles, and my father had developed heart problems. He’d have to make frequent trips to Miami where he was admitted to Miami Heart. Back then patients were kept in the hospital many days, and this arrangement wasn’t convenient for my father. The Naples Community Hospital meant a lot to my parents. It also meant a lot to me. I served on the Board of Directors, and, along with the Norris family’s financial support, George and I donated money of our own. We believed, fervently, in the hospital’s mission and the contribution it made to our community. Then I had a disagreement with the hospital. I think it’s important for the people who lead organizations to learn how to maintain relationships,

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Dedication Day, Naples Community Hospital, Left to right: My sister Joann holding her granddaughter Lindsey, my granddaughter Kelly, Me, My great niece Amy

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Organizations must respect their original donors.

so I’m going to tell you what happened and why I no longer support the hospital financially or through personal involvement. As I mentioned, my parents were among the hospital’s founders. They gave a considerable amount of money to the hospital and actively supported its mission. A number of years ago, an addition was built onto the hospital. As construction started, the contractor hit an artesian well. My father recognized this as an opportunity and talked the Board of Directors into building a lake. He knew the lake would be tranquil— therapeutic—for patients and their family members. My sister and I paid for the development according to the hospital’s wishes. After the project was finished, the area was dedicated to my parents. Every year thereafter, my family contributed money to maintain it, and, when asked, we gave additional money that paid for improvements. Then before I knew it—without anyone asking me or talking to other people in my family—the area was re-dedicated to an individual who had no previous connection to the hospital. This is an area where organizations can make big mistakes. I left the hospital without a good feeling. When you stop to think about it, the whole issue is about respect. Organizations must respect their original donors. After all, it’s the original donors who are responsible for the organization being what it is today. The original money probably doesn’t compare to today’s dollars. But consider this: If people weren’t willing to contribute money to get an organization started, the organization wouldn’t be around today. It’s a fact—a fact that must be recognized by Boards of Directors. Respect is one of my family’s foundational values. We believe respect is a key to all good relationships. If you respect someone or something, you don’t change with the wind—change just because someone offers you more. This destroys the relationship. I suggest you think about what happened between Naples Community Hospital and the Norris family. It’s an important lesson.

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David Lawrence Center Meets a Great Need

haven’t been actively involved with the David Lawrence Center for a good number of years. Nevertheless, I think it meets a great need in our community. People with mental problems—whether these problems involve drug abuse, alcohol abuse, schizophrenia, or whatever—can get help at the David Lawrence Center. The last I knew, the center has over fifty programs targeted toward helping troubled adults. In addition, it has a very good program for young people. No other organization in our community offers the same services.

YMCA Serves Everybody

he YMCA serves everybody. People of all ages can benefit from the services of the Y. It was, however, the childcare program that first caught my interest. About the time the Y was getting ready to build a new campus, Joe Cox, who was on the Board of Directors, came to our foundation and asked for funds. I didn’t know much about the Y, so before agreeing to get involved I wanted to check it out. My tour included the childcare center, which at the time was very small. I remember standing in the back of the room and watching Mary Bryant interact with the class of four-year-olds. I’m not sure who was more vivacious—Mary or the children. She was shooting questions at them about astronauts and the moon landing and the technicalities of the space program. And their little hands were waving like mad. Everyone had an answer. Everyone—that is—but me. I had just returned from Europe where we had a television set barely big enough to even see the moon landing let alone keep us informed about the intricacies of outer space and celestial

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Appreciation Gift from YMCA Children

bodies. All I could do was keep quiet and hope Mary didn’t fire one of her questions in my direction. I left the room thinking: My. It’s so interesting to watch all these little people. I marveled at their intensity and how interested they were in everything. When Charles Cleveland, who was the CEO at that time, asked me what I thought, I said, “You know, I’m quite amazed. I’ve never seen such a bunch of bright-eyed, bushy-tailed children in my life. It’s great. They all have smiles on their faces, and they’re all so interested in their activities. I think you’re doing a great job here with childcare.” That’s all it took. That’s when I decided to get involved. Later, Mr. Cleveland told me that the Y was just about to give up the childcare program because it wasn’t bringing in any money. So it wasn’t until I made my comments that they thought: Woops! Maybe we’d better re-think this a little bit. And they did. In the plan for the new building, they put in a wing designated solely for childcare. Interestingly, this space is now too small. The Y has a waiting list of about seven hundred children, which goes to show the need for childcare in our community. Childcare is a tough nut to crack. Often people don’t want to listen to me. They say, “Childcare isn’t our problem. It’s the problem of the parents. We’ve raised our children and don’t intend to raise other peoples’ children. If the family has a mother and a father, the mother should stay home with the children.”

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I disagree. My answer is consistent. I say, “You can’t just stick your head in the sand. We really need childcare in our community. If you want services, you must support childcare so mothers can work. And, keep in mind, there are also single fathers who need childcare services.” I believe the Y provides these services. It is a great program for our future generations. It offers activities and supports values that help mold children into better citizens who, hopefully, will stay in our community. I don’t go to meetings at the Y anymore, but I still offer advice and counsel. Actually, I’ve been told that if it weren’t for my involvement, the Y might not have a childcare program. I know the Y is currently having problems because so many families are coming into our community, which increases the need for childcare facilities. Even though the Y is over-crowded, it is dealing with the situation. I’ve been told that the outlook is positive—proactive. I feel good when I hear, “We’ll figure this out.”

I’ve been told that if it weren’t for my involvement, the Y might not have a childcare program.

The Norris Center Let’s Do It

ears ago when Cambier Park was being designed, my father, in his typical visionary style, went to the city of Naples and said to the commissioners, “Look, you’re planning to build a band shell, tennis courts, and a baseball field. But what you’re missing is a building where people can congregate.” In those days, there wasn’t any such thing

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carl thome

Norris Center, Naples, Florida

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My family was honored to give the city of Naples a building where people can get together for both business and social events. in Naples. Fortunately, they listened. He and my mother were honored to give the city of Naples a building where people can get together for both business and social events. Over time, the building deteriorated. In the 1980s when Edwin Putzell, Jr.—Ned—was mayor of Naples, he asked for funds to re-do the building. My sister and I agreed this was important. Through our family foundation, we donated money to refurbish the original building. After the renovation was complete, Mayor Putzell came to me and asked, “May we please name the building the Norris Center?” My parents never wanted their name on a building, so this request was out of the ordinary. I thought: Well, they’re not here anymore. Let’s do it. And that’s exactly what happened. A few years later, because of additional rot and concern about floods that often accompany hurricanes, we were asked to donate funds for a completely new building. Again, Joann and I gave funds to meet the needs of our community.

Delnor-Wiggins State Park Mother’s Legacy Continues

sually, my father’s visions initiated our family projects. But from the beginning, Delnor-Wiggins State Park was my mother’s venture. When my mother heard about a builder who planned to erect a high-rise building on the land fronting Wiggins Pass, she was furious. I lived in Belgium, so, unlike my mother, I wasn’t up on all the local Naples news. When I arrived for a visit, she didn’t waste any time

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My mother would be proud to know that Delnor-Wiggins State Park is named after her and is a tribute to her legacy of conserving the natural beauty of our environment. with niceties. Practically the first words out of her mouth were, “Lal, you’re coming with me. Get in the car. ” Clearly, something was up. I did as my mother insisted and got in the car. This was in the 1960s—before roads were what they are today—so we bumped along on the ruts that led to Wiggins Pass. As we got close, my mother jammed on the breaks and pointed. “Look. Can you imagine high rises here?” At that time, it was difficult to picture anything but the spectacular view in front of me. It was much like our view from Keewaydin before Gordon Pass was dredged. I thought: This is so nice. I did, however, understand my mother’s concern. I said, “I want a closer look. Let’s get out and walk around.” My mother grabbed my arm. “You stay in this car. I’m not taking any chances with the wild pigs.” I locked my door. Once my mother got something in her head, she didn’t let go of it. My father recognized, quickly, that it was in his own best interest to get on board with her project. He worked with Mary Ellen Hawkins to buy the land through St. Charles Charities and hold it until the county accumulated funds to pay back the debt. Well, this took a long time. Even though my father worked diligently to get the details resolved before my mother died, he ran out of time. It saddens me to tell you that Mother died before he cut through the miles and miles of red tape. Interestingly, the original June 16, 1964 purchase price for the 155 acres of land was $73,000. And for the record, today—just forty-four years later—it is appraised at $54,692,065. The mile-long stretch of white sand is rated as one of the best beaches in the nation. People love to picnic on the beach and swim, snorkel, and fish from the shoreline. Boaters launch boats into the water at Turkey Bay and motor or sail to the Gulf or up the Cocohatchee River. Kayakers paddle through estuaries, and scuba divers explore the hard-bottom reef. From the tower at the

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north end of the beach, people look out at Wiggins Pass and marvel at the wonders of the coastal habitat. My mother would be proud to know that Delnor-Wiggins State Park is named after her and is a tribute to her legacy of conserving the natural beauty of our environment. I visit Delnor-Wiggins State Park and think: My mother’s legacy continues.

Laudermilk Park Fills a Need

wasn’t surprised when my father went to the Naples city commission and said, “You know, you’re permitting buildings to be erected up and down the coast. But you’re missing something that’s so obvious. Just how is the public going to get to the beach?” Well, the commissioners didn’t have an answer. At that time, Mr. Laudermilk was the city manager. Fortunately, he understood the need my father saw and was most excited to work with him to develop the land that is now Laudermilk Park. My parents provided the city with an interest-free loan, and after the park was developed, they donated money to construct the pavilion.

My parents provided the city with an interest-free loan, and after the park was developed, they donated money to construct the pavilion.

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The Naples Pier A Naples Landmark

he Naples Pier is a Naples landmark. Originally, the only way to get to Naples was by boat, so the pier was built as an unloading point for passengers and supplies. There was a track up what is now Third Street, so the supplies could be rolled from the pier to the Naples Hotel. The pier was truly Naples’s lifeline. In September of 1960, Hurricane Donna’s 115-mile an hour winds destroyed the pier and fairly devastated the entire area. My parents believed one of the most important ways to restore citizens’ morale was to rebuild the Naples Pier. This took a lot of money, a lot of time, and a lot of effort, but in 1962 the project was complete. Then in the 1970s, the pier was destroyed again. This time, the culprit was worms. City officials knew it was important to—once more—rebuild the pier. The suggestion was to put a fee on its use. They wanted to put the money aside for future repairs or reconstruction. My parents disagreed. They volunteered to donate money for rebuilding the pier, but only with the provision that the pier remain free to the public. Their desires were granted, and, to this day, my family’s spirit of generosity lives on. Because of my parents, the Naples pier is available for everyone to enjoy—without charge.

Because of my parents, the Naples pier is available for everyone to enjoy—without charge.

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Cultural Landscape

dennis guyitt

Preserving Our Heritage, Me and Lois Bolin in the oldest Banyan tree in Naples. The tree was planted in 1916 and is designated as the first Cultural Landscape recipient.

Cultural Landscape Neighborhood Preservation

’ve often wished that I’d been clever enough to start my own business. I’m not sure what kind of business it would have been, and now I’m too old. So I do other things. I know my greatest contribution to the world is to maintain the Norris legacy by preserving my community. I believe my current projects work for me and for my community. I’m working on a way to adapt to change without really changing. There is a difference you know. I realize that change is inevitable. I acknowledge that some changes are good. I’ve been accused of wanting to maintain the status quo. That’s not true, and it’s time to set the record straight. I started visiting Naples back in the 1940s when it was just a sleepy little village. Fifth Avenue was lined with mom-and-pop stores. Everybody knew everybody. Everybody trusted everybody. No one asked for identification. People went into stores and said, “I’ll come back later and pay.” And they did. People didn’t lock their doors. Neighbors were neighbors. Of course, there were some drawbacks. Mosquitoes were horrendous. The medical facilities weren’t that great. And although it’s almost impossible to imagine Naples without a bank or a lawyer, people actually had to drive to Fort Myers for these services. The one movie theatre in town was in a Quonset hut. When it rained, the noise on the roof was so loud people couldn’t hear what was being said, so the film was stopped,

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and everybody went home. Basically, the only recreational activity was fishing. If people didn’t fish, they had a terrific shell collection. Today, Naples is very different. We still have excellent fishing and one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. But there’s more. The Naples Chamber of Commerce touts us as “a paradise,” and I agree. We have a wonderful Philharmonic Center for the Arts. We have the Sugden Theatre. We have the Naples Opera Society. We have the Botanical Gardens. We have marvelous, well-attended events. We have the Fifth Avenue and Third Street shops. We have excellent restaurants. We have many churches and excellent schools. We have recreational opportunities from golf to tennis to bicycling to boating to fishing. We have lovely parks. These changes are positive. But we continue to have problems. The greatest problem in our community is the number of new people in the area—people who don’t know the history of Naples, who are here part-time, who don’t have much interest in the area, who leave their community loyalty up north. In my opinion, when outsiders come in and want to change a community—a community that is home to its permanent residents—for selfish reasons, something has to be done. And I’m doing it. Let me give you a perspective. Outsiders who invade a community don’t understand what’s important for the common good of the community. For example, I was very upset when I heard talk about widening Gulf Shore Boulevard from Fifth Avenue South all the way down past the pier to Twenty-First Street. The plan was actually drawn up, and it showed an additional four feet on each side of the boulevard. Why? People wanted to put in bike paths and new sidewalks. Instead of looking at the overall picture, this suggestion was directed toward just one group of people. It ignored the landscape and the desires of people who live in the neighborhood. I don’t think building bike paths is the right thing to do in the historic area of Naples. That would change the entire neighborhood. Trees would be cut down. Concrete would be poured. The streetscape would be ruined. With that, what would make the beautiful and charming historic area of Naples different than any other town? Residents’ rights and their homes must be protected. People can’t come in and change an entire community for selfish reasons. They can’t say, “Well, back home we do such-and-such in this-and-that way.” Although it might be right

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“back home,” it might not be the best idea for our community. If we tried to go “back home” and change their communities, I’m confident that they’d be the first ones to complain. I remember one evening I was sitting at home watching a city council meeting on television. The discussion was about a proposal to build a city parking garage in Old Naples. A gentleman stood up and announced that he was a businessman who lived in Pelican Bay. He went on and on insisting that people in Old Naples don’t want change. Then he ranted that nothing stands still. He was animate: “The people in Old Naples want to live in the past. They don’t understand that as new businesses come into the community, Old Naples is going to change, and it’s going to change dramatically.” He ended his speech by preaching, “People must get their heads out of the sand. Old Naples can’t maintain the feeling of Old Naples forever.”

When people know the history of their community, it gives them roots, and they want to stay in that community, work in that community, raise families in that community.

This made me angry. People in Old Naples don’t have their heads in the sand. We realize change will happen. What we do want to do, however, is to manage the change in such a way that we don’t have concrete poured all over our beautiful residential area and have our neighborhood streets turned into commercial parking lots. It’s not right that someone from Pelican Bay—someone who doesn’t understand the feeling of our neighborhood—tries to intrude and tell us what to do. After all, 80 percent of the tax money in the city comes from residents. Of course, there are those who say that most of the money comes from the businesses that are being brought in. But I wonder: Is it really healthy for a community to bring in businesses that impinge residents’ homes? I

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don’t think so. I believe in progress, but it reaches a point when too much is too much. Old Naples—the area around the pier and down Gulf Shore Boulevard—is, after all, the heart and soul of Naples. This is where everything started. This is where Collier County really began. This is where a handful of families such as my family, the Morris family, the Sample family, the Briggs family, the Uihlein family, the Slaon family, and probably others began to take Naples from a sleepy little village to the thriving community it is today. They were the ones who worked together to develop the ambiance of Naples, who had the vision for what Naples should be. I feel strongly that their vision should be maintained. Many people were upset about Old Naples losing its integrity, but no one was doing anything about it. I finally thought: Somebody has to jump in, and it might as well be me. So I’ve started a program that is still in its infancy. Sometimes I wonder why in the world I’m involved with this, but I am. And the truth is I’m very excited about this program. I haven’t presented my idea to Hodges University yet, but they’re going to get it soon. Terry, stay tuned! We’ve only just begun. My brainchild is called “Cultural Landscape.” I’ve brought Charles Birnbaum in from Washington, and he’s starting to educate our community on how to create a cultural landscape. He’s part of the Cultural Landscape Foundation—a foundation that is the only not-forprofit foundation in America working to increase public awareness of the importance of preserving neighborhoods for future generations. A cultural landscape can be directed toward specific areas such as parks, or streetscapes, or a single house, or an entire group of homes. Interestingly, Mr. Birnbaum believes the center of energy for Naples is the spot where the old hotel stood—the spot that is now a parking lot. He said, “What a shame to have a parking lot here at the very place that is your center of energy.” As soon as he made this comment, I thought: Oh, Darn! He’s absolutely right. Quite frankly, until Mr. Birnbaum made this point, I didn’t even think about it. But it makes sense. When people talk about Naples, they talk about the pier and the area adjacent to the pier. It’s amazing how an outsider can come in and pinpoint something immediately. From that parking lot you look straight down to the pier and see the Gulf, and that’s exactly where everything in Naples started. Now, you can barely

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see the water and the beach, but if that area were opened up, this could be a focal point—a point that would attract people, a point where people could stand and take in the beauty of our area, a point that would benefit citizens, visitors, and merchants alike. As Naples grew, each geographic area became its own little neighborhood. We now have about sixteen unique neighborhoods. For example, Lake Park, the Moorings, Gulf Shore Boulevard, Port Royal, Aqualane Shores, Old Naples, and Golden Gate are all culturally distinct neighborhoods. Each neighborhood has totally different people and a totally different feel. Through cultural landscaping, each neighborhood can be respected and maintain its individuality. I tried to do this through the Historical Society, but peoples’ eyes kind of glassed-over, and they thought I was suggesting that we take away property rights. I’m not. That’s far from the truth. But I couldn’t get to first base through the Historical Society. I consider this to be my way of coming around the flank to try and get what I want without upsetting others. I talked with Dudley Goodlette, our District 76 State House Representative, about the notion of cultural landscape. He asked, “Wasn’t this in the visioning program for the city?” I told him that it wasn’t. He simply said, “Well, it should have been.” We talked some more, and Dudley told me that cultural landscaping should be the umbrella for our community’s visioning program. And that’s my hope. I hope that people listen to Charles Birnbaum and that cultural landscaping becomes a way for our community to respect and maintain the integrity of our old neighborhoods, while it brings in the new. I’m working to find a way to get all the pieces connected, so people can go to one spot and voice their feelings. As an example, I know from my grandchildren that the young people of today—people who are now in their twenties—are beginning to appreciate their heritage, and they, along with everyone else, should have the opportunity to express their opinions. Anyway, I renewed my relationship with Lois Bolin, Ph.D., and she helped me get started and is working diligently to help me further our vision. Our group is called “Naples Cultural Landscape Fund of the Collier County Community Foundation.” Our mission statement reads: Naples Cultural Landscape Fund (501c3) will serve as an educational

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resource to safeguard our community’s identity and character by honoring the unspoken agreement between those of the past with those who are living to those yet to be born. Through our unyielding commitment, we intend to promote the magic of place, foster a sense of community, and enhance a sense of belonging and connectedness to present and future generations. As Dudley suggested, I do see the concept of cultural landscape as an umbrella. Under this umbrella are trees and landscape and homes and people and community history. All these make up the cultural landscape of a community. They are all important. For example, when children know the history of their community, the community is more cohesive. Some people—especially the newcomers—claim that Naples doesn’t have a history. They’re wrong. We have a rich history, but this history hasn’t been recorded. When people know the history of their community, it gives them roots, and they want to stay in that community, work in that community, raise families in that community. Years ago people had a feeling of belonging. Everybody knew everybody. People went to the same schools and attended the same churches. The extended families were large, and people felt safe. Because people knew their community’s history, they felt pride in their community. I remember when I was a child we’d troop down to Pottawattamie Park, sit on the hillside, and watch the reenactment play about the founding of St. Charles. Each year it was the same thing, but we never tired of hearing about our town. Wouldn’t it be great if people could go to Cambier Park and see a play about the founding of Naples? I believe this would unite people in our town. Now, we’re scattered into many different neighborhoods, which is fine. People move into a neighborhood because they have a certain feeling about that neighborhood. But it’s important to recognize people in other neighborhoods, to respect and understand their beliefs. Selling the concept of cultural landscaping is going to be a real job. I learned from my parents, who were real change agents, that anytime someone has a vision for change—even when that vision is for a positive change—it is necessary to get other people on board. I’ve spoken with the members of city council, Dudley Goodlette, and Mike Reagan, president of the Greater Naples Chamber of Commerce. Now I’m going to talk with the Old Naples group in Aqualane Shores and the people on Third Street. I hope the Third Street people don’t want too much change in

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that area. I’m trying to get funding for this project, but if I don’t, it’s important enough to me that I’ll fund it myself. I believe wholeheartedly that the Naples Cultural Landscape Fund is vital to our community. I know, however, that I have to go along with what other people want. I know that just because one group thinks an idea is exactly the way to go, it might not be the best way. But I’m hoping the idea will sell. Think about this: Cultural Landscape isn’t a two-sided issue—it isn’t an issue that’s “over here” or “over there.” It is a wideangle lens process that will benefit everyone. I’m hoping Naples will become a model city that other communities will look to as an example of how a community can allow its citizens to respect and maintain its neighborhoods. That’s my vision. I don’t know how far I’ll get, but I’m sure trying. I have to laugh at myself because when George suggested that we live in Naples, I didn’t want any part of it. But life happens. We bought property, built a house, and over the years, Naples became my home—my community. It’s the place where I’ve developed dear, dear friendships. It’s the place to which I’ve committed my heart, my soul, and, quite frankly, my money. For the record, I want to say this, “It’s true. Things change. I respect change. But I will work diligently to insure that the old is not run over and killed by the new.” After I’m no longer here, I hope people remember I worked hard to do my best for my community. I hope they remember I worked hard to better the lives of children. I hope they remember I worked hard to better education. I hope they remember I worked hard to better the environment. And I hope they remember I worked hard to preserve the ambiance of Naples. If Naples turns into another Miami, it’s not my fault.

If Naples turns into another Miami, it’s not my fault.

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Musings

Skiing in Switzerland, Me, circa 1963

Musings My Hopes

hen I was a young girl and wished on a star, my wish was simple. I wished for a happy life. I’m fortunate. My wish came true. Of course, there have been ups and downs, trials and tribulations, but, on the whole, I’ve enjoyed my life. I’ve especially enjoyed the opportunity to travel and experience other countries, other people, other cultures. When I listen to the news today, I think: Well, it’s important to recognize different cultures. I’m confident my experiences give me a better understanding of what’s going on in the world. 071 Sometimes I sit and think: The world’s in such a mess it should be bombed, and we’ll just start over. Obviously, that’s not in the master plan— whatever the master plan might be. Instead—no matter how difficult—I think people must learn to understand other cultures. Realistically, I don’t have much faith that this will happen. But I sure wish it would. With more understanding, there’d be more peace. With more peace, there’d be more understanding. I believe understanding and peace meet full circle. It seems to me that people strive to outdo each other. This may sound idealistic, but I’d love to see cultures in which people aren’t so cruel to each other. It’s very difficult for me to understand how people can be cruel to their own people. But it happens. It’s part of the culture. For example, I think the way women are treated in many countries is disgraceful, but that’s the norm; that’s the expectation.

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Although I’ve had a few surprises and a few problems that spun me around and sent me off in a new direction there is not much about my life that I’d change.

I’m not exactly sure what I can do about this. I don’t know how the world can be brought together. I don’t know how all nations can be unified as one. Realistically, with human nature being human nature, it’s an impossible task. I do, however, think understanding each other can help. Even if you don’t approve of what is going on within a certain nation, understanding the problems and the culture is a step in the right direction. As I reflect, I realize that my vision—my contribution to improving this mess—is to understand others. For instance, countries such as China and India are in an industrial revolution. Yet, I can’t blame them for wanting to have many of the same things we have in the United States. I just don’t know how you stop people from wanting to have the things everybody else has. But then I wonder if they’re really thinking about what planet Earth can accommodate. I know China—especially around Beijing—is running out of water. Regardless of the water problem and the dreadful smog, the building continues. I must tell you that over-building in any area of the world upsets me. Back as far as I can remember my family has been interested in the environment. Today, things are more complicated than ever. Years ago, Chicago was dirty and black because of coal dust. Then the steam engine was invented, and for a few years, the problem was solved. I think some of the energy problems today—especially the problems here in Southwest Florida—can be addressed by harnessing solar energy. Of course, I’m not a scientist, and I don’t have all the answers. I do know, however, something must be done. Many times people turn away and say, “Oh, there’s nothing I can do about the environment. I’m going to continue living my life as usual.” But even on a small scale, there are things individuals can do to prevent further depletion of our world’s resources—resources such as our forests and our water.

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Frankly, Americans are very wasteful. I think back to my parents’ constant insistence, “When you leave a room, for heaven’s sake, turn off the lights. It’s wasteful to have lights blazing all over the house.” Something seemingly as insignificant as turning off lights is helpful. Everyone can do little things. Now there is talk about the hybrid car, which I find to be very interesting. I hope to buy one someday. I think everybody can be less wasteful. Think about all the paper that is wasted—my goodness. The more wasted paper, the more destroyed trees. Maybe e-mails and the computer help with some of the paper waste, but they sure don’t solve the entire problem. Cutting down trees bothers me a lot. I’ve read that some paper companies refrain from devastating entire forests—that they allow space for new trees to grow. I don’t know. Maybe they do. I hope so. Then I read about entire rain forests that are being destroyed. Quite frankly, I’m horrified by the whole mess. I believe the problem can at least partially be addressed through education. I remember when my brother-in-law lived in Haiti and worked through the United States government to teach Haitians how to re-forest their mountainsides with mahogany trees. New trees were planted, but when they got to a certain height, the Haitians cut them down again. When I first knew Haiti, it was a beautiful country. I remember majestic mountains forested with lush green trees. A few years later, there was nothing but bare dirt that was washed away by the torrential rains. Without education, I fear the same destruction will happen in the United States and all over the world. Something I do know for sure is the importance of friendships. I treasure my true friends. My most important friends are the ones I’ve known since high school. Many of my friends moved to various parts of the country—actually, to various parts of the world. But that doesn’t matter. Each time we get together, we don’t miss a paragraph. Our conversation carries on from where we left off. Years go by, but we pick up as if we saw each other just last week. This is very comforting. Alice Horne is one such friend. I met Alice when we were in high school, and we’ve been fast friends ever since. Alice lives in Tucson, so we don’t get to see each other regularly, but we talk on the phone and do our best to find time to get together. Alice and I share the meaning of true friendship. No matter what happens, a friend is always there for you. They’ll listen to your problems. You’ll listen to their problems. They’ll

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True Friends, Me, Alice (in middle), Patty, circa 1943

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True Friends, Sixty-four years later still eating and talking, Alice and Me, 2007

give you truthful advice. You’ll give them truthful advice. Maybe this advice isn’t what either of you wants to hear, but it’s given with openness and honesty. Then it’s left alone. As I told you before, George was my very best friend. He was always there for me. George willingly gave me advice and offered solace. When I was dealing with Keewaydin, I found it interesting that a number of people who were relatively new friends came forward to support me and to defend me. I’ll always remember what they did. Friends are good listeners. In recent years, a number of friends and family members sought solace from me, and I’ve been happy to sit and listen to their problems. I don’t know if what I’ve told them was what they wanted to hear, but after their situations calmed down a bit, many of them thanked me. Sometimes when you’re by yourself in the middle of a difficult situation, you don’t see the forest for the trees. You become narrow-minded and fail to see options. Friends can help you think things through. They can help you see the other side of your problem. My friends do this for me, and I do this for them. I feel blessed. Ever since I was a little girl, I have loved to read. There is nothing in the world like a good book. Quite frankly, if I knew I only had one day left to live, I’d probably sit down and read a book. I’d love to have more time to sit and read. Now it seems as if the only time I read is after I get in bed, and then I fall asleep. I want to remind you that I’m eighty-five years old, so naturally my activity level is different than it was when I was younger. I don’t fret over the changes. I think: Well, that was great at the time, but life goes on. I just have to roll with the punches. And I do. Although I’ve had a few surprises and a few problems that spun me around and sent me off in a new direction there is not much about my life that I’d change. When I was a freshman in college, I had a bad accident. I jumped my horse over a hurdle. Although I had a plan, the horse didn’t follow it. He got his way. I didn’t get mine. My terrible fall resulted in a severe back injury, and suddenly horseback riding—something I loved dearly—was no longer possible. I recovered and still had my horses, but riding was never the same. I no longer had full range of motion in my right arm—a condition that also ruined my tennis game. I didn’t let this bother me. I just thought: Well, it happened. Now I must take a different course.

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You know, sometimes changes that at first appear to be big risks aren’t that bad. At the time, you may be afraid of them, but they just might turn out for the better. Remember what happened at Hodges University. I believe that life itself is a risk. Granted, some risks are too dangerous to even contemplate. But for the most part, it’s the risk-taker who makes things better in this world—who moves on and gets ahead. You never know what will happen until you try. I believe that when people aren’t lucky, when they experience disappointments, when they have one disaster after another, they need to stop and look at the situation with an open mind. It’s important to learn from other people and from what’s going on around you. People who are successful—people who do wonderful things in this world—are curious. They have fortitude and keep going even in the most difficult situations. Sometimes people look at me and say, “Yeah. Yeah. Of course, Lal Gaynor has a good life. She has lots of money. Anybody who has lots of money can have a good life.” But I want you to know that isn’t true. Many people have lots of money, but they don’t have a good life, a happy life. Look at Leona Helmsley—the so-called “Queen of Mean.” No question, she had lots of money. She was a billionaire who, for many years, made the Forbes list of the richest Americans. Her life over flowed with material possessions, but I don’t think she had a happy life. Material possessions alone don’t make people happy. Being happy comes from cultivating a positive attitude, from pursuing interests, and from helping other people. What makes me happiest is staying active and reaching out to my community. In this way I can, hopefully, help other people to be happy. I love to see other people happy. I’m confident that some of the things I’ve done and some of the things I’m still doing touch lives in a positive way. After all, that’s the Norris way.

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Touch Tomorrow

carl thome

What’s Next? Lavern Norris Gaynor, 2008

Touch Tomorrow My Gift to Posterity

his brings me to the end of my story—but not really. As I told you, my story didn’t begin on my birthday, and it won’t end with my death. Through the experience of telling my story, I’ve come to understand it was my obligation to tell my story—to tell the story of the Norris family. DeeDee and Brud, thank you for asking. Thank you for your encouragement. Thank you for your persistence. Because of you, telling my story is no longer an item I promised to check off the Someday List. It’s a reality. I close with love, blessings, and a peaceful heart. Because of you, my story—the Norris family story—is now my gift to posterity. Because of you, my legacy—the Norris family legacy of generosity, of caring, of gracious giving will, indeed, reach out and touch tomorrow.

My story—the Norris family story— is now my gift to posterity.

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Between the Lines The Production Process It is an honor and a privilege to transform Lal’s Someday List promise to a reality. Thank you, Terry McMahan. Thank you, Lal. We are grateful for your trust.

Judith Kolva, Ph.D. is the founder and owner of Memoir Shoppe and an associate professor at Hodges University. Judith’s doctoral work focused on how preserving life stories can create meaning in life. She is a trusted interviewer, expert researcher, and gifted writer whose experience and expertise makes completing life stories easy. Judith travels worldwide transforming precious memories into priceless memoirs. Please visit her web site: www.memoirshoppe.com

cj Madigan is a publication designer and digital imaging specialist with over twenty years’ experience in graphic design and print production. Her firm, Shoebox Scanning & Design in Vero Beach, Florida, helps private publishers turn manuscripts into masterpieces. You can reach her through her web site: www. shoeboxscanning.biz