Call Me Maddy

Call Me Maddy

The Life & Times of Madeline Amelia Davel Krawczyk

Editor: Judith Kolva, Ph.D. Memoir Shoppe www.memoirshoppe.com Designer: Enid Grigg Heritage Biographies www.heritagebiographies.com

Š 2011 by Susan Jane Holewinski All rights reserved. No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Susan Jane Holewinski.

Photographs courtesy of Krawczyk and Holewinski families.

Dedication To My Family: Grandparents Parents Sisters Brothers Husband Children Grandchildren Great-grandchildren And all those to follow

A story is like a star: It is born in the past; It illuminates the present; And it will shine in the future.

J.R. Carroll

Foreword Life is short . . . well, maybe not my mother’s. She is now ninety-two years old. Her memories are many and will entertain and inspire her family today and in the future. Mom’s story is the foundation of our story. That is why it is important to document it and pass it along.

My husband Dennis and I want our children, grandchildren, and future generations to know “Maddy” . . . to know who she is and where she came from; to know they are part of many lives; to know they can learn from the past; to know their life is important, no matter how big or how small, no matter how loud or how quiet.

Thank you to Tammy Surratt. Tammy guides our family in many ways. When she suggested preserving my mother’s story, Dennis and I loved the idea immediately. Tammy, then, introduced us to Judith Kolva, who graciously met with Maddy and made her comfortable enough to share her life story. A heartfelt thank you, Judith, for compiling Mom’s memories and creating her book.

Thanks to my sister, Ann, keeper of many treasured photographs. She helped show that pictures are, indeed, worth a thousand words.

And finally, thank you, Mom, for looking back and sharing your very interesting story. You may claim yours is an “ordinary life,” but we certainly don’t think so. Your past is a lesson of accepting life’s many twists and living through it all by giving and loving.

Dennis and I want our family now, and always, grounded in this same philosophy, and so this book has come to be.

Susan Krawczyk Holewinski March 2011

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My Life and Times What Matters Most I’m ninety-two. Sometimes, at my age, memories fade. I wish I could remember like I used to, but every now-and-again my mind is blank—it seems things are right on the tip of my tongue, but they just sit there, all quiet like.

What I do remember, though, is important: I remember I’m lucky—I’m lucky because I have a good life.

I can’t tell you I’m famous. But so what? I appreciate what I have. That’s what matters most—that’s what makes me happy. Very happy.

It was fun to reminisce. And, now, I’m proud to share my life and times with you . . .

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My Father A Self-educated Man Not many people know everything. My father did. Along the way, he took a few business classes at what was then Northern Indiana Normal School and Business College in Valparaiso, Indiana. It’s now Valparaiso University. Other than that, as far as I know, he was a self-educated man.

I don’t know how my father managed to learn so much. But he did. He believed in education, and he passed his belief down to me and my ten brothers and sisters. We learned almost everything from Dad.

German, Through and Through My father was German, through and through. His father, John Davel, was born November 8, 1845 in Berlin, Germany. His mother, Amelia Graumann, was born March 11, 1840 in Bismarck, Germany. They were married in 1873. A year later, on October 31, 1874, my father was born. His parents named him Albert Frank Davel. Dad was the eldest of five boys: Albert, John, Charles, George, and Joseph.

When Dad was a year old, his family immigrated to the United States. Because he was so young, he couldn’t remember a thing about coming to America or why his parents decided to leave Germany. But I suppose, like most German immigrants, they were attracted to land and political freedom. Or, it could be, they wanted a fresh start in the New World.

One Busy Man Somehow, Dad’s family ended up in Two Rivers, Wisconsin, before they moved on to Hilbert and then Spencer. Around 1900, they settled in Loyal, where they lived for the rest of their lives. Loyal, Wisconsin is a small pioneer village in Clark County that got its name from the brave, patriotic men who left to protect the Union during the American Civil War of the 1860s. I love history, so I think that’s interesting.

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Albert & Florence Davel Maddy’s Parents’ Wedding October 8, 1902

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My grandpa was in the horse harness business. Back in the late 1800s, horses were a way of life. Men rode their horses everywhere; folks traveled in their horse-drawn buggies; farmers plowed their fields with horses; loggers hauled their heavy loads with horses. Well, farming and logging brought settlers to Loyal, so it must have been a good place for my grandpa to grow his business. But, whatever, my dad remembered Grandpa Davel as “one busy man.”

Apparently, my grandpa did some drinking. My father never came right out and said as much, but most likely that’s why he didn’t drink—at least until he got older. Dad never went to the tavern, but in his later years, he drank a little wine. Actually, wine was good for him because it helped him relax—a bit anyway.

Loyal Tribune Obituaries It’s too bad, but I don’t remember my grandparents. All I know is what I read in their Loyal Tribune obituaries. My grandpa’s obituary reads: “Death visited one of our Loyal, Clark County, Wisconsin homes about eight o’clock this morning, January 18, 1906, and claimed as its victim our esteemed citizen, John Davel. The result was due to a cancer of the stomach. Mr. Davel had been ill for a few weeks and until within the last ten days, his friends anxiously looked for his recovery, as he had been of a very robust man up to his present illness. The funeral will be held Saturday afternoon at 2 o’clock at the Lutheran Church.

Burial: 21 Jan 1906, Loyal Trinity Cemetery, Loyal, Clark Co., Wisconsin.”

My grandma’s obituary reads: “Mrs. Amelia Davel died at home in Loyal, Wisconsin on August 25, 1920.

Mrs. Davel was remarkably active in body and bright in mind, a very industrious woman, always helping others and ready to do a kindness to anyone so that her death felt as a personal bereavement in many homes in this vicinity. The funeral was held from the Catholic Church Friday Morning at nine o’clock, Rev. Joseph F. Stenz officiating, and she was laid to rest in the Catholic Cemetery.”

After Grandpa died, Dad moved Grandma next door to us and watched over her for the rest of her life. She outlived Grandpa by fourteen years. Even so, back then, that’s what families did. There was no such thing as a nursing home. I was only two years old when my grandma died, so don’t remember this first-hand, but my dad told me that she taught me how to walk—he was real proud.

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John & Amelia Davel Maddy’s Grandparents’ 45th Wedding Anniversary

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Salt-of-the-Earth Dad was salt-of-the-earth—a small, slim man who moved fast. To tell you the truth, he never walked. Never.

Dad ran. I guess he had to run because he didn’t own a car. I don’t think he even had a driver’s license.

Dad had blue eyes. I can’t tell you the color of his hair because by the time I came along, he was almost bald.

It was hard to imagine Dad in a barbershop. Still, every Wednesday and every Friday, Dad paid the barber to shave him. Then, about once a month, the barber trimmed his fuzzy-fringe hair.

“After all,” Dad said, “the barber has to make a living, too.”

Twenty-five Cents A shave and a haircut, together, cost a quarter. Yes—twenty-five cents. I know this for a fact because Dad kept a little book, where he wrote down what everything—and I mean everything—cost.

With today’s prices, it’s hard to imagine buying eggs for 12¢ a dozen, or a pair of pants for a quarter.

But Dad kept track of everything, so I know it’s the truth.

Look for yourself:

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Albert Davel’s financial notebook

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Davel General Store Loyal, Wisconsin

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General Store

Dad worked hard, always. In 1892, when he was eighteen years old, he got a job clerking at the General Store in Loyal. In 1907—fifteen years later—he still worked there, but he wasn’t just a clerk. He was the owner.

The General Store was the only store in Loyal, so people bought everything from Dad: groceries, chewing gum, tools, shoes, socks, boots, long underwear, patterns, material, watch fobs, blankets, soap, seeds, firecrackers, even harmonicas.

During the early 1900s, farm families didn’t keep much cash money. They lived off the land. Still, they needed some things from town. So farm wives and their daughters loaded up big wooden wagons with fresh vegetables, canned applesauce, crocked sauerkraut, homemade brooms, and goose feathers (for pillow stuffing), clucked to the horses, and drove to the General Store, where they traded for “store-bought” necessities.

My father’s store was nothing like today’s supermarkets: bulk food was stored in wooden barrels—cracker barrels, flour barrels, sauerkraut barrels, vinegar barrels, even smelly herring barrels. Customers didn’t push shopping carts—they handed Dad a list, and he waited on them. And almost everything was sold on credit.

Customer accounts were tallied and settled up weekly, monthly, or, for some, yearly.

I don’t remember much about the General Store, except that’s where my mother and I went to pick out material for dresses and buy shoes. I do, though, remember when Dad changed from a general store to a grocery store.

He named his grocery store Davel’s Groceries and carried groceries but not meat. The meat market was next door. Davel’s Groceries stayed in business until 1969.

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Very Strange Dad loved his store, and it provided a nice living for my family. But, to me, something was strange: first thing in the morning, Dad ran to the store and lifted the awning. He usually came home for supper. Then, after sunset, he ran back to the store and lowered the awning.

I don’t know what in the world he had that might fade, but he was always coming-and-going, fixing his awning. Strange—very strange.

Penny Candy When I was a little girl, candy was the best thing about Davel’s Groceries. It was displayed in big glass jars, with screw-on metal lids, that sat on the countertops. Dad carried fireballs, red hots, peppermint sticks, sour balls, licorice ropes, suckers, jawbreakers, sours. I liked it all.

Candy sold by the piece and only cost a penny. Still, there was a problem: Dad didn’t allow his kids to run in and ask for a piece of candy. No. We couldn’t do that. So, we went to another store and bought candy with the penny we were supposed to drop in the church offering plate.

Ice Cream Now, let me tell you about ice cream: Dad loved ice cream. He didn’t carry it in his store, so every so often, he gave us a quarter, and we walked to the ice cream shop downtown and bought a quart of ice cream—Oh my! what a treat.

Number 9 On occasion, Dad’s customers called up the store and placed orders over the telephone. My brothers, then, rode their bicycles around our little village and delivered groceries.

It’s hard to imagine today, but the first telephones were nothing more than a wooden box, about the size of a shoebox. Callers talked into and listened out of the same hole. That was a big problem because the only way to stop listening and start talking was to tap-tap-tap on the box.

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In the late 1800s, the three-box telephone was invented.

It hung on the wall; the top box was a bell; the middle box was a transmitter; the bottom box held a battery. Around the turn of the century, the three boxes became one, and a crank was added. It was this crank telephone that hung on the wall of Davel’s Groceries.

The doctor, undertaker, and storekeeper were usually the first three people in town to get a telephone. Dad was Loyal’s ninth, so the store’s telephone number was 9.

By the time he ordered a telephone for our house, there were thirty-six other telephones in Loyal, so our home telephone number was 37.

Number Please Loyal had one telephone operator. To make a phone call, you turned the crank and rang her up. She sat in front of a switchboard in her house, so she answered calls no matter what time of the day or night they came in. Before switchboards were invented, you rented telephones in pairs, so you could only talk to one other person, but after switchboards came along, you could talk to anybody.

When the operator came on the line, she’d say, “Number please.” You’d say, “Number 4,” or whatever number you wanted. Then, she’d plug this long, wire-like cord into a little hole, and that’s how you got connected.

Because the operator could (and did!) listen-in on conversations, she knew everybody’s business. I guess you could call her the “local gossip” and not be too far wrong.

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Party Line My family lived in town, so we had a private telephone line, but families that lived in the country had a party line—that meant two, three, or even four families shared the same line.

Here’s how it worked: if the telephone rang once, it was for you; if it rang twice, it was for, say, the Amsel family; if it rang three times it was for, say, the Murphy family; if it rang four times it was for, say, the Dunne family.

You picked up on your ring, but you could listen-in on any conversation. And, you know, that was a good thing—sometimes people talked so long you had to break in and ask them to please hang up.

Just So Blue jeans were invented in the late 1800s, but they weren’t called “jeans.” They were called “overalls” and were nothing like the expensive designer jeans you see today. They were workpants. You had two choices: blue indigo or brown duck cloth. You could wash the brown ones a hundred times. It didn’t matter. They were never soft and comfortable. Never.

Blue indigo. Brown duck cloth. Dad didn’t care. He was a formal man, especially in the way he dressed and refused to wear overalls, even to work. Dad always dressed up. During the week, he wore a long-sleeved white shirt and a black vest. Then, on Sunday, for church, he added a tie, but it wasn’t a clip-on tie. Dad was very particular about tying his tie. He always looked just so.

Dad Worked Dad worked seventy, eighty, even ninety hours, six days a week. Because of a blue law—a blue law was a law that made Sunday a day of rest—he couldn’t open the store on Sunday. But Monday through Saturday, he unlocked the front door at six o’clock in the morning and sometimes didn’t lock up until after nine at night.

Go to work. Come home. Dad worked. Nothing else.

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Even when Dad was home, he worked at something or the other. He had two big gardens, but because he liked to garden I suppose that wasn’t work as work. Still, he didn’t have much time to spend with his kids.

Some nights, though, he’d hang up his rake, wash his hands, and sing a German song while he rocked us to sleep.

Raspberries My family loved to pick raspberries, and believe it or not, that was the only time Dad took off work.

We’d hook tin pails on our belts and head to the hillside, where the raspberry bushes grew. Raspberry bushes don’t have thorns like rose bushes, but they do have tiny stickers, so if we weren’t careful, we’d get pricked.

Raspberries only stay fresh a day or two, so as soon as we got home, my mother got out her big granite kettle and made raspberry jam. Mom’s jam was good—so good.

The Real Spanking Dad was very, very strict. No doubt—he was the disciplinarian. My mother wasn’t any different than most mothers—she’d get after us and tell us to “Stop . . . !” or “Don’t . . . !” But like most kids, we paid more attention to Dad. I wasn’t a naughty child, but I didn’t come with a halo. I guess I was about average. Probably the worst thing I ever did was to go along with my brothers and sisters and steal strawberries. Well, somehow, Dad found out. He lined us up and said, “I have to go to work, so I don’t have time right now, but when I get home, you’re going to get a spanking. Don’t you dare go out of the yard.”

I sat down on the curb and waited. It was a bad day. I was miserable. All day long I thought about the spanking. And he did it too. He kept his word—we each got a spanking for stealing strawberries. It hurt, but it taught us to be honest.

That sticks in my mind because it’s the only spanking I ever got. I maybe got a little pat every now and then, but this was a real spanking.

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Let it Slip My father didn’t allow me and my sisters to have boyfriends. I’m not telling tales out of school, but I will let it slip that if a boy walked us home, he stopped a block away because he didn’t want my dad to see us together. Besides that, people talk, you know.

School Board My father took part in everything in our little village . . . for almost forty years, he was on Loyal’s school board. I’m proud to tell you that he signed high school diplomas for all eleven of his children. He even signed high school diplomas for some of his grandchildren.

Dad supported education. Always. When my brothers and sisters and I were young, and he had a few minutes, he helped us with our homework. Then, Dad made sure we all went on for some sort of education beyond high school.

Because of Dad we ended up becoming nurses, teachers, bankers, engineers, and businessmen. After my oldest brother, Lawrence, graduated from business school in Milwaukee, he came back to Loyal and joined Dad in the store.

Firefighter Loyal had a volunteer fire department. Until Dad was seventy years old, he was an active firefighter, and for all those years, he was always the first man at the fire. Could be, that was because we lived two blocks from the fire house. But most likely, it was because Dad ran so fast.

The firemen wore a little badge on their uniforms. I guess it must have been a Maltese cross because that’s the symbol for firemen. A Maltese cross has eight points, and each point stands for something different: loyalty, piety, frankness, bravery, glory and honor, contempt of death, helping the poor and sick, respect for the church.

And, you know, that sums up my father.

Mild-mannered—Except My father was a mild-mannered man. He never yelled or got angry—except . . . except when he went to ball games. Then, Oh my! watch out. He’d holler at the ballplayers; he’d holler at the referees; he’d holler just to holler. My family was so embarrassed, we’d sit as far away from him as we could get.

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Prayed from the Heart Dad was a deeply religious man. He was a member of Saint Anthony’s Catholic Church and active in the Fourth Degree Assembly, Knights of Columbus. Every Sunday, Dad was the first person in church, and he never missed Mass. Never.

Every day, Dad prayed the rosary; every day, Dad prayed for his eleven children. But, the thing was, Dad prayed from the heart. Most people say, “Please, God, bless all my children.” Not Dad. He called each and every one of us by name and asked God to take care of us. I figure that that took him a long time. Dad didn’t care. He did it anyway.

Genuinely Good Person My dad lived a healthy life. He was active and never smoked. But for some reason, he ended up with the same thing I have now (macular degeneration) and went blind. Eventually, he had eye surgery at Neillsville Memorial Hospital, and, Oh my! he was an entirely different man. Dad was so rough and gruff with the nurses, they could hardly hold him down to give him his pills. I guess it was because Dad never took medicine, and at ninety years old, he wasn’t about to change his ways.

Dad died on September 10, 1969. He was ninety-five years old. The doctor didn’t say what was wrong with him, but Dad never slowed down or was sick, so I guess it must have been old age.

By the time my father died, along with his eleven children, he had thirty-eight grandchildren and nineteen great-grandchildren. It’s kind of strange to think that even though he was the oldest of five brothers, all four of his younger brothers died first. We buried my dad in Saint Anthony’s Cemetery in Loyal, where lots of other relatives are buried.

My father was a smart man—a wise, kind, honest man. He was a genuinely good person. He earned the love and respect of his family and the entire community of Loyal, Wisconsin. I’m proud to be his daughter.

Very proud.

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Family photo before Dorothy was born Back row Gert, Evelyn, Thomas, Martina, Lawrence, Marie Front row Maddy, Albert (Father), Paul, Jayne, Florence (Mother), Catherine

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My Mother Busy I suppose most women with eleven children are busy. My mother was. She worked all day and long into the night, without any help from modern conveniences. Cooking, baking, canning, washing, ironing, sewing, mending, darning, mothproofing, sweeping, polishing, nursing, nurturing . . . the list stretched on.

I wonder how she did it all. I guess she thought oh never mind and went about her business.

Half-Irish My mother, Florence Irene Baker, was born August 16, 1880 in Seymour, Wisconsin. There were five girls and six boys in her family. So she was raised in a family of eleven children—same as me.

My mother’s father, James Baker, was born in Ireland; her mother, Margaret Fogarty Baker, was born in Ireland, too. That makes me half-Irish. Maybe that’s where I get my good sense of humor.

Stave Joiner My mother’s parents grew up in Princeton, New Jersey. Eventually, her father’s family moved to Stockbridge,Wisconsin, where he got a job. Sometime later, her mother traveled to Stockbridge to visit her cousin. I don’t know for sure, but people say that’s where they met and got married.

I can tell you that Mom’s father worked as a stave jointer—he made staves and headings for barrels.

You see, way back in the 3 rd century A.D., Romans invented barrels, and for nearly two thousand years, people used wooden barrels as an easy and economical way to ship and store lots of things things: oil, wine, beer, whiskey, rum, brandy, Tabasco sauce, rain water, nails, even gold coins.

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Anyway, because of his business, my mother’s dad followed the saw mills. When timber was used up at one mill, he picked up and moved his family to the next town. Transportation was by horse and buggy. What today would be a short, easy trip from town to town took them all day, or even longer.

My mother’s family lived all over Wisconsin: Hein Town, Boyd, Rice Lake, Marshfield, and a little town with the strange name of Neenah-Menasha. I especially remember Neenah-Menasha because Mom’s parents are buried in the north end of the town’s cemetery—Saint Patrick’s—the oldest cemetery in the area.

Real Proud When my mother was thirteen or so, her family moved to Loyal, Wisconsin. Because she’d lived so many places, she went to school here, there, and everywhere. Still, somehow she managed to make it through the eighth grade.

When she got to Loyal, around 1893, the town was ready to open its first high school. But for some reason, the school board decided twenty-five students had to pass a test before the school was official. My mother wasn’t sure she’d do too well, but she took the test anyway. She passed. Luckily, so did at least twenty-four other kids.

My mother must have been smart because she graduated in 1898, and during those days, it was very, very rare to earn a high school diploma. There were only five students in her class who made it. Mom lived to be ninety-four years old, and until the day she died, her graduation picture hung on the wall. She was proud.

Real proud.

Rules After Mom graduated, she taught in a country school. Back then, the state of Wisconsin didn’t require teachers to attend a normal school (a school that trained teachers) before they were allowed to teach.

Well, teachers may have been allowed to teach, but they weren’t allowed to do much else. The school board enforced strict rules:

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1. Each day teachers will fill lamps and clean lamp chimneys.

2. Teachers will bring a bucket of water and a scuttle of coal for the daily session.

3. Men teachers may take one evening each week for courting purposes, or two evenings a week if they go to church regularly.

4. After ten hours in school each day, teachers may spend the evening reading the Bible or other good books.

5. Women teachers who marry or engage in unseemly conduct will be dismissed.

6. Any teacher who smokes, uses liquor in any form, frequents pool or public halls, or gets shaved in a barber shop, will give good reason to suspect his worth, intention, integrity, and honesty.

7. The teacher who performs his labor faithfully and without fault for five years will be given an increase of twenty cents per week in his pay, providing the board of education approves.

Rules or no rules, Mom taught three years before she married Dad. Then, she never taught again.

Mom and Dad were married sixty-seven years, and I never once heard them argue. I guess they talked-over their problems and agreed on most things.

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Family at Parents’ 45th Wedding Anniversary Back Row (left to right): Jayne, Gert, Tom, Lawrence, Paul Middle Row (left to right): Maddy, Martina, Evelyn, Marie, Catherine, Dorothy Front Row: Albert and Florence

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Stair Steps

I saw a picture of my parents on their wedding day, October 8, 1902, but they never said a word about their life together before they got married. I can, though, tell you that Mom started having babies when she was twenty-three years old, and regular as the calendar page turned, over the next twenty-four years, she had eleven children. That was lots of kids. But, back then, most families expected lots of kids.

We looked like stair steps: Florence Evelyn was first in 1903. She was followed by Lawrence (1905), Marie Agnes (1908), Gertrude Rose (1909), Thomas Edward (1911), Martina Ann (1912), Catherine (1916), Me—Madeline Amelia (1918), Paul Ambrose (1920), Jane (Jayne) Helen (1922), and finally, Dorothy Jean (1927).

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A Bushel of Apples Dorothy was a surprise. Nobody thought there’d be another baby, so she’s not even in the early family picture. I was nine when Dorothy was born. Her birth is actually my first memory—I remember that day very, very distinctly. . . .

The area’s only hospital was in Marshfield, about twenty miles from Loyal. In those days, the roads were so bad it took a long time to drive twenty miles, even in the summer. Dorothy was born in April, and in Wisconsin, in April, it rains . . . and rains . . . and rains some more. Back in the early 1900s, rain turned the already rutty roads to mud holes; they were really bad. Of course, that meant it took even longer to drive from Loyal to Marshfield.

Well, in April of 1927, we knew Mom was “sick,” but we didn’t know what was wrong with her. Nobody told us anything, except that Dad had to drive her to the hospital. They drove off, and we stayed home and worried.

Back then, pregnancy was hush-hush. Nobody talked about it. Suddenly, somehow, someone had another baby. Some people claimed storks brought babies; others told stories about finding babies under cabbage leaves. But no one ever explained how babies really came about. Never.

My family was the same as other families—we minded our business and didn’t pay any attention to the notion that Mom might be pregnant. Even my sister Florence, who was sixteen years old, didn’t know Mom was pregnant. Mom was sick. Nothing else.

Anyway, back to the bad roads: the doctor was worried because Mom was so old (she was forty), and he didn’t want to take a chance with another homebirth. Apparently, he told my dad that this baby must be born in the hospital.

This got Dad to worrying about the bad roads and how long it might take to drive Mom to Marshfield.

So, unbeknown to us, Dad decided Mom had to get to the hospital a few days before her due date.

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Well, Mom was gone three, four, maybe even five days when, early one morning, my sister Florence ran upstairs to my room. I was still in bed. She yanked the door open and hollered, “Maddy! Maddy! You’ll never guess what Mom got.”

I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and said, “A bushel of apples.”

Florence laughed. “NO! A baby—a baby girl.”

I was so surprised I couldn’t say another word. Not one.

I don’t know why, but all these years later, I can still see this so plainly. Of course, people kidded me about what I said and asked me if I really wished Dorothy was a bushel of apples. When I answered, “Sometimes!” everybody laughed.

I didn’t know I liked apples so much, but I guess I did. Maybe that’s because Dorothy was the apple of our eye. We loved that baby so!

I suppose, in a way, Dorothy was spoiled—at least what some people call “spoiled.” With ten brothers and sisters to look after her, she couldn’t help it. By the time Dorothy came along, our older brothers and sisters worked, so they could afford to give her special things, and take her places, and treat her to supper out. The rest of us never had that chance. But Dorothy wasn’t spoiled in a “spoiled brat” kind of way. As a matter of fact, today she’s very unspoiled. She’s wonderful!

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Ping! Ping! Ping!

Until my older sisters grew up a bit, nobody helped Mom take care of her babies or do the housework.

She did it all. Back then, women didn’t have appliances like they do today. Mom had a carpet sweeper she pushed back-and-forth but nothing else. Her work was hard, physical work.

Every day, Mom fixed a big breakfast, lunch, and supper. Every other day, she baked seven—yes seven—loaves of bread. Every week, during the summertime, she canned.

Not only did she can fruits and vegetables from Dad’s two big gardens, she canned fruit from the store. You see, as soon as peaches or strawberries or apples got a brown spot or two, Dad brought them home, and Mom put them up.

Canning was lots of work: Mom carried Mason jars up from the basement and washed them real good.

Then, to make jam or jelly, she mixed fruit with sugar and a thickener called “pectin.” She’d stir and stir until the mixture came to a boil. After it cooled a bit, she’d ladle it into jars and seal the jars with hot paraffin wax. The wax kept the mold off.

She processed everything else in a pressure cooker. A pressure cooker heats food to a very high temperature—the heat kills bacteria that can cause botulism. A little gasket forms a seal that won’t let air or steam escape between the pot and the lid. I can still see the silver weight jiggle and hear the whistle.

When the food was ready, she’d spoon it into jars and screw on the lids. The jar lids had little dimples, and as the jars cooled, the dimples popped: Ping! Ping! Ping!

The problem with pressure cookers was sometimes they’d blow up and you’d end up scraping food off the ceiling. I don’t remember Mom’s pressure cooker ever blowing up, but they did, you know.

Never Got Up Again One very strange day, we knew something wasn’t right: my mother didn’t want to miss a thing, but that afternoon she came home from her card game, set her pocketbook on the table, and said, “I’m sick. I’m going to bed. I’m never getting up.”

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We just looked at each other. What in the world . . .?

Well, we had a parlor and a sitting room (the sitting room was what a family room is nowadays), so we set up a bed in the sitting room, where Mom could still be around all the coming-and-going. And just like that: our busy mother went to bed and never got up again.

Please Take Me I’m sure Mom suffered because we’d hear her pray, “Dear God, please take me.” I guess she was ready. I guess she decided that was it—she had enough. But I don’t know for sure.

I do know my mother was ninety-four years old and healthy right up to a few months before she died.

Having eleven children didn’t hurt her; working hard didn’t hurt her, either. Both Mom and Dad worked hard their entire lives and both were healthy right up to the end.

Wise Woman My mother was a great woman, a wise woman—to have eleven children and raise them all to be good people, she had to be special. My brothers and sisters and I learned a lot from Mom. I have to laugh because my mother did her best to teach me to cook and sew. I admit that although I learned, I didn’t learn too well. But that’s okay. I did learn something much more important: accept things as they are.

My mother went along with just about everything. And, from her, I learned that’s what you have to do—accept your life as it is, and things will turn out the way they’re supposed to. That’s what my mother thought anyway.

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Girls’ Summer Camp - Watermelon Eating Maddy front left

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My Childhood

Just Another One

My full name is Madeline Amelia, but you can call me Maddy. Everybody does. I was born October 22, 1918 in Loyal, Wisconsin. My parents named me after Dad’s mother (the grandmother who taught me how to walk).

No one told stories about my birth. I guess by the time I came along, I was just another one. I do know I was born in my mother and father’s bedroom, the same as all my brothers and sisters, except Dorothy.

I was only two when my brother Paul was born and four when my sister Jayne was born, so I don’t know a lot about homebirths. But I suppose, like with most homebirths, either a midwife or a doctor came to our house. Back then, it was unheard of for a father to be around during childbirth, even if it was in his own home. Complications were common, but as far as I know my mother was one of the lucky ones—all her babies survived.

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Loved We were a close family. We grew up feeling loved: parents, brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, everybody loved everybody.

We felt safe. I wasn’t afraid of anything. Well, anything except dogs that is. A dog never bit me. Still, I was scared to death every time a dog ran out of its yard and barked at me.

Arguments for Dessert In a family of eleven children, we shared everything—including chores. Goodness! There were so many of us—one had to set the table; one had to pick up the table; one had to wash the dishes; one had to dry the dishes.

It was our job to keep track of whose turn it was to do what. Every day we’d fuss back-and-forth: I did it last . . . NO! I did it last . . . It’s your turn . . . NO! It’s your turn. My dad told us that we had arguments for dessert.

But we knew better than to argue about Saturday. Saturday was the day Catherine and I had to scrub the floor. Well, instead of one taking one Saturday and the other the next Saturday, we’d draw a line on the floor.

Then, Catherine would wash her half, and I would wash my half. We didn’t cross that line, ever.

The Shadow Knows!

My family didn’t have a television, and when I was real young, we didn’t even have a radio. I must have been nine or ten years old before Dad bought a radio. He loved to listen to sports, especially baseball, and was so happy because he could finally listen to his baseball games.

As kids, we listened to The Shadow. The program started with music, a scary laugh, and the shadow warning, "Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men? The Shadow knows!" We were scared. Real scared.

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The Movie House Practically every weekend we walked downtown to the movie house. Movies cost ten cents; popcorn cost a nickel—I remember that because when I was a teenager, I worked at the movie house and made popcorn. We didn’t buy pop (soda). Every once in a while, my sister made root beer at home, but we didn’t drink much pop.

Simple, Good, Clean Fun Life was different back then. We didn’t have fancy electronic gadgets. We played games. Lots of games. All the kids in the neighborhood played games that were simple, good, clean fun. Oh my! We had so much fun—so much fun—doing all the things kids used to do . . .

We played Mumblety-peg with a pocket knife. Two kids faced each other and took turns sticking a knife in the ground. Whoever got closest to the other one’s foot won. Can you imagine? We jumped rope and even did Double Dutch. We threw a little bouncy ball in the air and scooped up jacks. We played pickup sticks.

Do you know how hard it is to get a single stick out of a big tangled pile without moving another stick? It is.

Back then, people weren’t afraid. Our parents didn’t think twice when we stayed out after dark, ran all around the neighborhood, and played Run, Sheep, Run. First, we’d pick two teams: the foxes and the sheep.

Then, the sheep would hide, and as soon as their leader—the old ram—decided they could make it to their den without getting caught by the foxes, he’d yell, “Run! Run! Run, my good sheep, run!” If the sheep made it safely, they got to be foxes; if they didn’t, too bad, they were still sheep.

We played Annie-Annie Over. One bunch of kids lined up on one side of the woodshed; another bunch on the other side. Then, we tossed a ball back-and-forth across the roof. Of course, you couldn’t see the kids on the other side, so when you threw the ball you had to yell, “Annie-Annie Over!” The game was as much about yelling as it was about catching the ball.

My parents played cards, and we learned to play from them. As kids, we played simple games: Hearts, and War, and Rummy—that sort of thing.

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Girls basketball in high school Maddy top row 1st on right

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Big Time Each year a carnival and a circus came to town. For folks in our little village, they were big time.

The circus traveled by train. Posters appeared a week or so ahead, and at the crack of dawn, the first day of the REEEELY BIG SHOW, the crimson and gold circus train pulled into town. The entire town showed up at the tracks to watch the crew unload—elephants, lions, tigers, horses, chimps. It was all so exciting.

And then there was the big top, with its sawdust, three rings, and dashing, mustached ringmaster. Nothing beat the aroma of popcorn and roasted peanuts. We loved the acrobats, tumblers, dare-devil trapeze artists, and of course the clowns.

When the carnival came to town, a Ferris wheel, merry-go-round, and bumper cars were set up right on Loyal’s main street. Compared to rides today, they were tame, but we thought they were great.

Dancing One thing we didn’t do was dance. My parents never danced, so, I suppose, that’s why we never danced.

My high school didn’t have a prom, so I didn’t think much about dancing until I was older and went to weddings. Then, when the dancing started, I had to sit back and watch. Oh well . . . dancing never much mattered to me.

Our Faith I was raised in a Catholic family. We never missed Mass. As young children, we learned to pray the Rosary: we’d make the sign of the cross; finger the beads; recite the prayers—Apostles’ Creed, Lord’s Prayer, Hail Mary, Glory Be to the Father. We knew them all.

We learned about God, and Jesus, and the Holy Ghost, and the saints, and Heaven, and the Bible, and confession, and the Catholic Church. We could say the Ten Commandments by heart.

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My family didn’t take pictures, but because church meant so much to us, my dad took a picture of me on the Sunday of my First Communion. I looked forward to that day because I knew it was the first day in my life that I would be allowed to go to confession and take Holy Communion. I got all dressed up in a pretty white dress, and my entire family watched me walk down the center aisle in our church. I felt good—even important.

Our faith was part of us. We saw it, read it, felt it, lived it, and that’s how we knew it. We were taught to be good to people; we were taught to be nice to our teachers. If we were naughty at school and someone snitched, we got a second punishment at home.

Nowadays, parents usually take their kids’ word. Not our parents.

We didn’t dare tell on each other, or we’d get it. Of course, kids being kids, every now and again, we were little tattle-tales.

Maddy at her First Communion

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Two-story House Our house was a great big two-story house, with a screened-in front porch and a big lawn. My parents’ bedroom, kitchen, dining room, sitting room, and parlor were downstairs. The parlor was for special occasions, so we didn’t use it too often. Upstairs there was a long, wide hallway that led off to four bedrooms.

I shared my bedroom with my sister Catherine.

Maddy’s Childhood Home Loyal,Wisconsin

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When I was born, we didn’t have a bathroom—we had an outhouse. I don’t remember much about the outhouse because by the time I was old enough to use the toilet, we had a chemical toilet. It sat on our unheated back porch, and my dad emptied it. But, again, I don’t remember much about it except in the wintertime you did your business real fast. Lucky for me, by the time I was old enough to remember bathrooms, we had indoor plumbing.

Loyal was ahead of other towns in the area, so even when I was little, we had running water and electricity.

After our bathrooms were built, we had a bathtub, but before indoor plumbing, we took a bath in an old galvanized tub. My mother would drag that tub into the kitchen, set it next to the woodstove, and fill it to the brim with hot water. And that’s where all of us—yes all of us—took a bath. I guess it wasn’t too bad, though, because we only took a bath once a week.

With eight girls in the family, there was lots of hair to wash. Once a week, we took turns: one would bend her head over the kitchen sink . . . then the next one . . . then the next one. Being the youngest, Dorothy was always last.

Shampoo wasn’t around—we used bar soap. Drying was easy—we used a towel.

I guess it’s a good thing that, back when I was young, girls didn’t spend much time primping.

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Scary Wisconsin winters are cold, cold, cold, but our big coal furnace kept us plenty warm. What I remember most about the furnace is it was down in our crummy, smelly, scary basement. I suppose our basement was what’s called a “Michigan basement.”

Michigan basements aren’t just in Michigan—they’re all over the Midwest. They have cement floors, dirt walls, and a damp, musty, mildew smell. The ceiling is the floor of the house’s first-story, run through with wires and plumbing pipes—a perfect hangout for spiders and other creepy, crawly bugs.

Every now and then Mom sent me to our basement to bring up canned goods. Oh, how I hated that basement.

And if that wasn’t bad enough, we had a big, dark, scary cellar-way that led down to the basement. If we acted out at the supper table or didn’t eat our food, Dad punished us—we had to stand in the cellar-way.

Oh, how I hated that cellar-way.

Heart of Our Home The kitchen was the heart of our home. It was big. Very big. The minute we got home from school, we’d gather in the kitchen and watch Mom work. She always said, “Get out of here. I’m too busy. Get out!” But we didn’t pay any attention. We wanted to be with Mom. And to tell you the truth, she wanted to be with us, too.

A table big enough to seat our entire family sat in the middle of the kitchen and cupboards lined the walls.

Mom cooked on a woodstove that had a reservoir on the side. She’d fill the reservoir with water, and heat from the stove kept it hot—that was our only source of hot water. My brothers’ job was to chop wood and drag it in from the woodshed out back. If they didn’t keep the wood box full, they were in lots of trouble.

Goodies I have no idea how Mom controlled the oven temperature in her woodstove. But I guess she did because she was an excellent baker. Bread was a regular weekday chore. But Saturday was special: every Saturday, she baked rolls, and coffeecake, and Johnnycake, and cakes, and pies—all those goodies.

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An entire cake was just enough to feed all of us for one meal, so we weren’t allowed to eat cake for lunch—we had to save it for supper. When we were hungry between meals, Mom always said, “Eat a piece of bread, with butter and jelly.” As a kid, I didn’t think bread was much of a treat, but I’d sure like to have a piece of Mom’s bread now. Oh my! It was delicious.

I’ll never forget my mother’s Johnnycake. It was like cornbread— hot and dripping with butter. Good! Back when I was growing up, lots of women, especially farm women, churned their own butter, but we always got our butter from Dad’s store.

The Icebox We had an icebox. I remember that . . .

I can still see it in our kitchen. I can still see my uncle, who was the town’s iceman, drive up in front of our house. I can still see the big blocks of ice in the back of his truck. I can still see him haul ice into our kitchen. I can still see him bend down and put it in the icebox. I can still see Mom empty water out of the tray under the icebox. I can still see . . .

There’s a pond in Loyal, where we skated in the wintertime. I can still see us skating—we skated a lot: morning, afternoon, and night we skated. But there was a certain time of the year when we weren’t allowed to skate. I can still see us sitting on the bank, watching my uncle drive onto the pond and chop big blocks of ice.

I can still see it all.

Women’s Work Back when I was growing up, women’s work had a rhythm. There was a chore for every day of the week: they washed on Monday; ironed on Tuesday; mended on Wednesday; shopped on Thursday; baked on Friday; cleaned on Saturday; rested on Sunday. At least, they were supposed to rest on Sunday.

Except for baking, Mom’s work followed the pattern. So, Monday was washday. Thirteen people meant lots of dirty clothes: diapers, baby clothes, underwear, socks, shirts, sheets, pillowcases, towels—big piles of dirty clothes. We didn’t change our underwear every day. We just didn’t. Still, Mom washed all day long.

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Mom stored the washing machine in the cellar-way, and early Monday morning, she’d roll it into the kitchen.

After the clothes were washed and rinsed, she’d load a big laundry basket with the heavy, wet clothes, lug it to the back yard, and use wooden clothespins to hang the clean clothes on the rope clothesline.

In the wintertime, when it was too cold to hang clothes outside, she’d set up a wooden rack on the back porch. The porch was warmer than outside. Still, the clothes froze solid. Dad’s long underwear stood straight-up. Really.

Monday afternoon, after she brought the clean clothes in the house, she’d fill a sprinkler bottle with water, dampen the clothes, roll them up, and pile them in clothes baskets, so they were ready to iron on Tuesday.

And let me tell you something: when I was a kid, ironing wasn’t anything like it is today. Everything had to be ironed: sheets, pillowcases, underwear, shirts, pants—absolutely everything. Each week, my sisters and I ironed our way through great big basketfuls of clothes.

Mom Nursed My mother never heard of commercial baby food; she didn’t even know about formula and baby bottles.

Mom nursed. Some years, she never stopped nursing. As soon as one got old enough to eat mashed food—potatoes, peas, carrots—off the table, the next baby came along. It’s a good thing people fed their kids from the table a lot earlier than they do nowadays.

Home Remedies Sure we had the usual childhood diseases—colds, flu, mumps, pink eye, whooping cough—but for the most part, we were healthy kids. When we did get sick, it seemed the older ones caught stuff first and brought it home to the younger ones.

Dr. McGuangol was the local doctor, but Mom didn’t take us to his office too often because she treated us with home remedies. We soon learned that a cold or sore throat meant she’d smear us with Vicks VapoRub and wrap us with flannel strips. Vicks smelled terrible.

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One time I had a bad cold. Mom was going out for the evening, so before she left she told me if I drank a little warm wine, it would help me sleep. I guess I didn’t know a little from a lot because as soon as Mom closed the door behind her, I grabbed a big glass, filled it to the rim with wine, and drank every drop.

Oh my! Mom was right: I went to bed and slept the entire night.

Scarlet Fever When I was a sophomore in high school I caught scarlet fever and had to stay home from school for six weeks. Back then, scarlet fever was a very serious disease. I had a sore throat, a bright strawberry red tongue, a red rash on my chest and behind my ears, and a high fever. I was so sick Dr. McGuangol came to the house, opened his little black bag, and gave me some kind of medicine. Antibiotics weren’t around until the late 30s, early 40s, so I’m not sure what it was, but I guess it worked because I got better.

I felt sorry for my mother: four or five of us were sick at the same time, and she was the only one who could take care of us. Because we were contagious, nobody was allowed to go in or out of the house. Even my dad had to stay away. He brought groceries home from the store but had to leave them outside the back door.

Dental Care Our dental care was terrible—just terrible. Today most people see the dentist every six months, but we didn’t do anything like that.

Novocain hadn’t been invented yet. Can you imagine having a tooth filled without Novocain? It hurt—a lot. About the only time we went to the dentist was when we had a toothache, and by then, it was too late. He pulled the tooth.

Believe it or not, my parents didn’t even make us brush our teeth—they didn’t know any different. I guess that’s why I have such poor teeth today.

Good Cook Mom was a good cook; we enjoyed our meals.

First thing in the morning, Mom called us to get out of bed, but it was up to us to get dressed and ready for the day. As I remember, the older ones helped the younger ones—at least some did. By the time we clattered 40

downstairs, Mom had breakfast ready. She usually made some sort of cooked cereal: oatmeal, Cream of Wheat, buckwheat, barley—you know, something hot, topped with milk and brown sugar.

For supper she often fixed roast beef or roast pork, with all the trimmings. Then, there was dessert. Mom baked a dessert for every meal: cake, cookies, pie—we always had something sweet at the end of every meal.

That’s why I’m spoiled today. I have to have dessert, always.

Boiled Dinner Boiled dinner was our favorite meal: Mom covered a big pork roast with water. Then, she added a little salt and a dash of pepper. Next, she dropped in potatoes, carrots, onions, and cabbage. After a stir or two, she put a lid on the big pot and set it on the stove to simmer until everything was tender. The meat was good, but, Oh my! we really liked the vegetables.

Boiled dinner is an Irish dish that has been in my mother’s family from way back. When Mom’s relatives visited, she always fixed boiled dinner. At the end of the meal, when Mom asked what they wanted for dessert, they always said, “More boiled dinner!” Everybody loved it.

I was brought up eating boiled dinner. I still fix it, and my family loves it, yet.

Potatoes for Breakfast Autumn in Wisconsin is beautiful. I loved the change of seasons—cool air, colored leaves, crisp apples.

I especially loved to go out to the country and visit my farm friends. Fall was the time of year their families threshed. Back then, threshers moved from farm to farm to help with the harvest. Threshing was hard work: they’d thresh in the morning, eat lunch, thresh in the afternoon, then, they’d eat supper.

Eating was the best part. The women laid good stuff out on big tables: meat, fried chicken, baked beans, potato salad, applesauce, canned peaches, green beans, macaroni and cheese, bread, chocolate cake, cherry pie, apple pie, peach cobbler—it was like going to a picnic that didn’t end.

There was, though, one thing that always struck me funny: every morning—very, very, early—the family had a regular meal for breakfast: bacon, sausage, eggs, pancakes, toast, and, of all things, potatoes. I’d tell my mother, “I can’t believe it. They had potatoes—potatoes—for breakfast.”

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Fifty Cents My family didn’t have much money. A few of my friends received an allowance. We didn’t. But every Fourth of July my dad gave each of us fifty cents. That was big. Very big. I was careful with my fifty cents, so it lasted me a long time.

Hand-me-Downs Girls in my family never wore slacks. Never. We wore dresses—dresses my mother made. Somehow, in between everything else Mom did, she found time to sew for the entire family. I can still see her sitting at her sewing machine, sewing long into the night.

My older sisters got new dresses; I got their hand-me-downs. Then, one year, on the Fourth of July, I got a brand-new, orange dress. And almost even better, it was a store-bought dress. Well, wouldn’t you know it?

A spark from a sparkler hit my dress.

My dad grabbed me quick and rolled me in the grass. I didn’t care about the fire or my burns. I was sad—so sad—because there was a big hole in my dress. Mom patched it the best she could, but it wasn’t the same.

My brand-new, store-bought dress was spoiled.

When I was in the eighth grade, I finally got a coat that wasn’t a hand-me-down. It was my very own, brand-new coat. By then, my older sisters worked and could afford nice, expensive coats. My coat wasn’t as nice or as expensive as theirs, but I didn’t care. My coat was wonderful. It was mine—all mine. I was proud. Real proud.

Hard Times On Thursday, October 24, 1929, the stock market crashed. I was only eleven years old, too young to pay attention, but in looking back, I realize Black Thursday was a sad, sad day for lots of people, including Dad. My dad had stock in the bank. I can’t tell you what happened, but I suppose somehow he managed to keep some of the stock because after he died all eleven kids received shares of bank stock.

The Great Depression followed. Those were tough years for lots of people, but because my dad owned the store and kept his gardens my family always had enough to eat. We didn’t suffer like most people, but I remember hearing about the hard times.

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Very Special Day I want to tell you about something special: Christmas was special. Very special. We kids weren’t allowed to see anything before Christmas morning. No tree. No decorations. No presents. Nothing.

We went to bed, without a fuss, early Christmas Eve but could hardly sleep. This was the only night of the year we were allowed to wear long underwear to bed so, come morning, we could get up fast. And we did.

At exactly five o’clock, we ran downstairs and everything was a fairy tale come true. Like magic, the tree was trimmed; the decorations were in place; the presents were wrapped.

Our tree was beautiful: lots of trim; lots of lights. When I was very young, our tree had real candles, but what I remember most is when it had lights. The lights were pretty, but the candy—Oh my!—the candy. We had red and white striped ribbon candy and bright red cherries. As you might expect, by the time we took the tree down, the candy was long gone.

My dad loved Christmas and made sure his kids received nice presents. I’ll always remember the year my sisters and I got dolls: we had to share the doll bed and doll buggy, but the dolls were our very own.

After the bustle of opening presents, we went to church and came home to a big chicken dinner—chicken, potatoes, salads, fresh baked rolls, and of course pumpkin pie. Always pumpkin pie. The pumpkin pie finished off a very special day.

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Madeline Amelia Davel High school graduation

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My School Days

Can’t Wait!

I really was my dad’s daughter: I liked school; I liked everything about school. I remember watching my older brothers and sisters leave for school and thinking: I can’t wait! But Loyal didn’t have a kindergarten, so I was almost six years old before I could start first grade at Saint Anthony’s Catholic School.

Four Big Classrooms Saint Anthony’s was a brick building that sat on top of a hill. It had four big classrooms: one for first and second graders; one for third and fourth graders; one for fifth and sixth graders; one for seventh and eighth graders. The classrooms were separated from each other by a long, center hallway. The chapel and the toilets were in the basement. The chapel was fine; the toilets weren’t.

Nuns My teachers were nuns. Back when I was in grammar school, nuns dressed in full-length black dresses called “habits.” Their heads and most of their cheeks were fully covered with black headpieces, and their faces were framed with pure white, starched linen caps. They wore black aprons and sturdy black shoes. Their rosaries were clipped to black woolen belts. Silver crosses hung around their necks.

To a little kid, nuns dressed in all black were scary. Were they really witches? Of course they weren’t, but sometimes we wondered—especially when they were crabby and gave us little spanks.

We Walked Saint Anthony’s was only a couple blocks from our house, so we walked to and from school, and we walked home for lunch. I walked with some of my brothers and sisters, but not all of them—when we all walked together, we fought.

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Always History I was a good student. I wasn’t the smartest one, but I did get a few 100s, especially in spelling. Back then, instead of As and Bs, or worse, the teacher wrote a number on your paper. I didn’t like math or science—my favorite subject was history. Always history.

McGuffey Readers Like most kids back then, my books were McGuffey Readers. After the King James Bible, McGuffey Readers were the most widely read books in America. Kids learned everything from them: reading, grammar, spelling, writing, history, geography, science, math—everything.

The lessons were arranged by difficulty: in first grade, you read single, simple words; by the time you got to eighth grade, you read Shakespeare. But the readers taught more than subject stuff: they had moral lessons that shaped an entire generation of lives, mine included.

Biology After eighth grade, I went on to Loyal High School—the same school my mother graduated from. The high school was in a brick building that, by the time I came along, was in bad shape. I had thirty-seven students in my class.

Unlike kids today who take art and gym, our classes were just regular old subjects: chemistry, science, history, English, Latin, biology.

I especially remember biology: I was the only girl in my class who lived in town, so when we got to anatomy and reproduction, I was pretty dumb. But the teacher was real nice. He’d kid me in front of the whole class.

“Maddy doesn’t live on a farm. How can we expect her to know anything?”

I liked that teacher a lot.

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High School Graduation I graduated from high school in 1936. I guess my graduation wasn’t too special because I don’t remember much about it, except our school didn’t have a room big enough to hold all the people, so they set up chairs in the theatre downtown.

I do, though, remember our school colors: they were blue and gold. Isn’t it funny what people remember?

Simple Dating My parents were strict. Even if I wanted to act out (I didn’t) they wouldn’t let me. I can’t remember that I ever got into trouble. I suppose I was in the “cool kids” group, but we didn’t have as much of that as kids do nowadays. We weren’t so worldly. To tell you the truth, we didn’t know too much, at all.

Sometimes I went out with a boy, but you couldn’t call it “dating.” We didn’t have cars, so about all we could do was take a walk or go to a movie—nothing big. I guess you could call it “simple dating.”

I had a boyfriend or two, but they didn’t mean much, and they weren’t around too long. They were just boys—nothing special.

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Bridge Club

But I do remember something that was special: I was the only person, in the entire school, who knew how to play Bridge. My mother played, and we played at home, so that’s how I learned.

Well, I managed to convince seven girls that we should start a Bridge club. And let me tell you something: back then, it was very unusual for high school kids to have a Bridge club. And let me tell you something else: things haven’t changed much—kids today wouldn’t even think about a Bridge club. But we had so much fun.

We went from house to house, and when it was my turn, my mother helped. The other girls didn’t know a thing about Bridge, so it took them a long time to learn. Every week, the Loyal Tribune printed the name of the girl who got first—and that would be me!

But I guess the other girls didn’t care because, even today, all these years later, they still play; they still thank me for teaching them how to play Bridge; they are still nice girls; and most important, they are still my friends.

When I moved to Pulaski, I made new friends. Before long we started to play Bridge together, and I’m happy to tell you that our games continued for more than 60 years. But that’s not all: they and their husbands became very good friends, and Lucian and I shared many good times with the other couples.

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Bridge Club Friends Arvilla, Maddy, Lu, Wanda Cocktails before attending Pulaski High School Prom (Parents went to the dance along with the students.)

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Stevens Point Normal School After high school, I went on to Stevens Point Normal School. Back then, it was a school that trained teachers. Nothing else. Now, it’s University of Wisconsin-Stevens Point, where students can get a degree in everything from anthropology to wildlife. Oh my! school sure has changed.

I went to college because of my dad—we all did. We never heard anything else: You’re going on to school.

That’s it. No questions asked. So we went.

My dad didn’t make much money, but he paid tuition and bought books for each and every one of his eleven kids. I can’t tell you how much that cost him. It wasn’t as much as it is today, but it was enough.

Spending Money For a couple summers I worked at a resort in Ephraim—a little town in Door County Wisconsin that was, and still is, a popular tourist town. (Years later my granddaughter, Kate, also worked summers in the area.) My friends and I were even in a bathing beauty contest. I don’t remember if I won, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is we had so much fun.

I made a little money at my job, but not much. Then, Dad gave me fifty cents a week—fifty cents—that’s all I got, not a penny more. And my fifty cents had to take me to a movie, and buy me a candy bar, and let me do whatever other fun things I wanted to do.

But the good thing was everything else was paid for.

Where I Belonged During my last two years of college I lived on campus. My roommate, Barbara Gerdes, was from my hometown. She was my friend then, and she’s still my friend today. As a matter of fact, I just went to her ninetieth birthday party.

Anyway, I had to study and was an average student, but I managed to have fun. Something or the other was always going on, and I met lots of people, so I had pals to chum around with. I had a couple dates but nothing serious. I don’t even remember the guys’ names.

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Maddy (3rd from right), Summer in Ephriam, Wisconsin with friends

My friends and I couldn’t afford to go out to eat, but we didn’t care. We’d bring food from home and cook it in the little kitchen in the basement of our dorm. We ate some meals in the dorm’s dining room, but that wasn’t nearly as much fun as being together, cooking, laughing, and telling girl stories in our “own” kitchen.

That was special. Very special.

It was less than fifty miles from Stevens Point to Loyal. If I wanted to go home, it was easy to hitch rides from other students who lived in Loyal. But I didn’t want to go home, at least not too often. I had fun at school—that’s where I wanted to be—that’s where I belonged.

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Graduation from Stevens Point Normal School

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My Teaching Years Three Choices Back in my days, girls didn’t have many career choices: Nurse. Secretary. Teacher. Only three. I wanted to be a home economics teacher, but Stevens Point didn’t offer a home ec degree, so I settled for a degree in primary school education.

Behind Thorpe Toward the end of my last year at Stevens Point, it was time to apply for a job. The career office on campus listed openings, so I looked them over and decided there were a number of interesting possibilities. Because I didn’t own a car, my brother agreed to drive me to the interviews. My last interview was in Pulaski, Wisconsin. I’ll never forget that day . . .

My brother dropped me off in front of the school. I thought Okay. Here I go, opened the front door, and walked up a few steps to the principal’s office. His name was Frank Joswick, and like most people in Pulaski, Mr. Joswick was Polish. Well, I’d never been around Polish people, so I wasn’t used to their ways, and I certainly wasn’t used to the strange way they spoke.

The minute I sat down Mr. Joswick asked me, “Where are you from?”

“Loyal,” I answered.

He said, “Oh, that’s behind Thorpe.”

My heart skipped a beat. Behind Thorp? What in the world does he mean?

I guess I mumbled something and made it through the rest of the interview without embarrassing myself because Mr. Joswick offered me a job teaching first and second grade in Pulaski.

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It took me a long time to get used to the broken English and unfamiliar expressions. But I finally figured out “behind Thorp” meant “south of Thorp.” When they said, “I come by your house,” they meant, “I’m coming in.” And when they asked “Who is she from home?” they meant “What’s her maiden name?”

Most of my students lived on farms, with grandparents and parents who were directly over from Poland, so they really had the Polish thing going on. Pretty soon they taught me to count in Polish: Jeden.

Dwa. Trzy. Cztery. Pięć. Sześć. Siedem. Osiem. Dziewięć. Dziesięć. Ten is about as high as I could go.

Dziewięćdziesiąt is the word for 90, and that’s a mouthful.

I got used to their expressions; I even used some myself. But I never got used to the length of their words.

Did you know Konstantynopolitanczykowianeczka is a single word that means girl from Constantinople? Well, it does.

About the Same Age Pulaski was behind Loyal in terms of “modern” conveniences. In 1940—my first year of teaching—the town didn’t even have running water. I figured the school system had only been around about fifteen years because my sister Evelyn taught in the high school when it was brand new, and she’s fifteen years older than me.

Actually, when I think about it, the little village of Pulaski recently turned one hundred years old.

I’m ninety-two. So we’re about the same age.

Forty-four Kids The first year I taught I had forty-four first and second graders in my class. They were cute kids, but cute or not, that’s a lot of kids. To tell you the truth, with that many in one class, I don’t know how they learned to read, write, add, subtract, or for that matter, anything else. But they did. People say kids who want to learn will learn even without a teacher—a teacher just keeps them in line. At least, that’s what people say.

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Pulaski didn’t have a kindergarten, so my kids came directly from the farm to the first grade, and believe me, they weren’t anything like kids today—kids who watch “Sesame Street” and play computer games from the time they can sit up. Most of my kids didn’t even know their colors, so I had to start right from scratch.

Miss Davel!

All day long it was, “Miss Davel, this!” . . . “Miss Davel, that!” . . . “Miss Davel, everything!” At the end of the day I was very tired.

I taught nine months a year and got paid a hundred dollars a month. So for nine hundred dollars, I taught everything: reading, writing, arithmetic, geography, history, science, gym, art—everything.

I was with the kids all day long. I even had to go outside and watch them at recess. I had a few minutes to eat my lunch, but that was it. I was lucky that I didn’t have to go to the bathroom very often.

I liked teaching, but I didn’t like being with the kids all day, every day. Every now and then, I wanted a little break. All-in-all teaching was fine, but I didn’t love it the way some people do.

Nothing Bad Each week I wrote a lesson plan and turned it into the office. That was the easy part. Following it was a different story. With so many kids, I had to make sure the ones in their seats had busy work while I taught the others. It’s a good thing I didn’t have any kids who misbehaved—at least not a lot.

Every so often, my supervisor visited my classroom and watched me. I’d go right on teaching just like she wasn’t there, and then a few days later, she’d sit me down, give me a report, and criticize certain little things I did.

I don’t know why I was so scared—she never said anything bad.

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Maddy & Lucian as a young couple

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My Marriage

Nice Guy Smoking. They say it’s not good for you. I guess that’s true. But in a strange way, smoking is the best thing that ever happened to me . . .

The first year I lived in Pulaski, I shared a small apartment with another brand new teacher. Well, the day I moved in, a woman across the hall introduced herself and told me she’d taught in Pulaski for a year or two. We talked a bit. Then, she surprised me. “Do you smoke?” she asked.

I was kind of taken aback because, in the 40s, teachers weren’t allowed to smoke, or drink, or go to a bowling alley, or be seen in a bar. Nothing like that.

Still, for some reason, I admitted, “Well, yes. I smoke.”

She said, “Come on. I know the manager of the Cash Way store. It’s a little grocery store up the street.

We can buy cigarettes from him.”

I stopped unpacking, and we walked to the Cash Way store, where she introduced me to Lucian Krawczyk.

I said, “Hello. It’s nice to meet you.” We bought our cigarettes and left. I didn’t think too much about this Lucian Krawczyk, except he was probably a nice guy. After all, he sold us cigarettes, didn’t he?

A few days later, Lucian asked me for a date. Come to find out, he and his friend wanted to double-date with me and my girlfriend. Well, I hadn’t fallen in love with Lucian at first sight, but he was tall, and he did have a nice build. Plus, I didn’t want the other guy.

I agreed to go as long as Lucian was my date.

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Cash Way Store (Where Maddy and Lucian first met in Pulaski)

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Dates I can’t tell you what it was, but there was something about Lucian because from the first date on, he was the only man I dated . . .

Back then, people dressed up for dates. No matter where we went, Lucian wore a suit coat and a tie and always looked nice. I wore a dress and heels. Lucian (other people called him “Lou,” but I always called him “Lucian”) and I went to movies and had dinner dates. He owned a car, so we drove to lots of different places.

My pay was so low I couldn’t afford to buy a car, and my parents didn’t own a car, so I had never learned to drive. But Lucian fixed that.

Greatest Game of All Time We always had fun, but nothing was more fun than driving to Green Bay to watch the Green Bay Packers play football. I loved the Packers then, and I still love the Packers. I went to their games for more than fifty years.

The Packers hold lots of records. But I hold a record, too: during all those years, I never once went to the bathroom at the stadium. It’s not that I didn’t drink. I did. We sat next to my brother- and sister-in-law, Don and Eileen, and they brought hot toddies. It was so cold, we needed them.

I’ll never forget the Ice Bowl game. I was there. It was the coldest National Football League game on record—13 degrees below zero, but with the wind chill, it was minus 48. Green Bay fans didn’t care about the cold. We wanted to win, and win we did. We beat Dallas 21-17 to once again become National Football League champions. Some say it was the greatest game of all time. I agree.

Fans for Life There are football fans and then there are football fans. Green Bay fans are football fans—fans for life. Lucian bought season tickets on the fifty yard line, and up until about five years ago I never missed a game. Not one. I can’t go anymore, but I still watch the games on television. I passed the tickets down to my daughters, Joan, Ann, and Judy, and they will stay in the family forever.

It’s hard to say what makes a Packers fan a Packers fan. I guess it is what it is. In Green Bay, the Packers are the biggest thing going. You grow up hearing about the Packers. You read the paper and the news is all about the Packers. Everybody talks about the Packers. It’s Packers this and Packers that. Packers! Packers! Packers!

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Sure I love the Packers, but there’s more: I’m a real sports fan, in general. I still go to high school games. Boy’s games.

Girl’s games. I go. It all started when I was real young—I got it from my dad.

Back when I first started going to Packers games, we dressed up. Football games were a real style show. You never saw jeans or T-shirts or shorts like you do nowadays. Nothing like that.

For fall games, I wore a dress or a skirt, never slacks. When the weather turned cold, I had to dress warm. I wore gloves, a hat, boots, and my big muskrat coat. I remember that coat: it was full and real pretty.

We’d usually go out to eat after the games, so we didn’t eat a lot in the ballpark. But I’ll tell you something: there’s nothing like a hotdog before the game.

Hotdogs don’t taste so good at home, but, Oh my! they sure taste good at the game.

The Packers don’t have a special cheer or fight song— we just stand up and yell a lot.

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Future Packers Fans at Lambeau Field Baby is Julia (L to R) Elizabeth, Caroline and Ryan

Nowadays they have cheerleaders, but we don’t follow them. We just yell and scream and make lots of noise.

People always sit in the same seats, so by going to the games you get to meet lots of people and get to know them real well.

It was all so much fun.

Fell in Love Anyway, Lucian and I continued to date, and it wasn’t long before I realized he’d do anything for me.

Anything. He was so good to me. If I wanted to do this or that, or go here or there, he went right along with it. You know—common, ordinary, everyday things. It wasn’t anything special, but it was special.

The simple truth is I fell in love with Lucian Krawczyk.

Dad’s Permission This is funny: Lucian wanted to get married, but we had a problem: being that I was out of college and teaching only a year, I didn’t think it was right for me to get married. So, every time Lucian brought up marriage, I’d say, “I can’t get married. I need to work. If I get married now, my parents won’t be happy.”

But the truth is there was more to it: Lucian was Polish, and my parents didn’t know a single thing about Polish people.

Time went on. Lucian kept begging me. I kept saying, “My parents paid lots of money to get me through college. I need to work. I owe them something.”

Lucian didn’t give up. Finally, one day he said, “Okay. I’ll talk to your dad.”

A few days later, Lucian and I and our good friends, Robert and Anna Riordan, climbed in the car and started off to see my father. Along the way, the men dropped me and Anna off in Wausau and drove on to Loyal.

My dad liked Lucian right away and agreed to our marriage. Maybe Dad was surprised. I don’t know.

I do know, in those days, it was unusual for a young man to go to an older man and ask him for permission to marry his daughter.

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Let’s Go Ahead

So that was that—Lucian gave me an engagement ring, and we started making plans for our wedding.

On December 7, 1941, Lucian and I drove to Loyal to talk to the priest. We weren’t required to take pre-marriage instructions, but we did want Father’s blessing. By the time we left the church, we’d set a wedding date.

Of course we wanted to share our good news with my parents, so on our way out of Loyal we stopped at their house. As usual, my dad had the radio tuned to the Packers game. Well, early in the first quarter the game was interrupted. An announcer came on and said, “At 7:48 AM, Hawaiian Time, the Imperial Japanese Navy attacked Pearl Harbor!” We, along with the rest of the nation, were stunned.

When we got in the car, Lucian was quiet. Real quiet. Finally he said, “Maddy, you know I’ll be drafted and have to leave you behind, don’t you? If you want to change your mind about marrying me, it’s okay.”

I didn’t hesitate. “No, Lucian. I want to marry you. Let’s go ahead with our wedding.”

So on December 30, 1941, during school vacation, I married Lucian Ambrose Krawczyk. I was twenty-three years old. He was twenty-four.

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Maddy and Lucian Krawczyk’s Wedding Photograph December 30, 1941

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Catherine, Maddy, Lucien, Richard (brother) Wedding Day December 30, 1941

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Simple Wedding Our wedding was simple church wedding, with only a few relatives for guests. I wore my sister’s wedding gown. It was a white dress—long and plain, but very pretty. My sister, Catherine, was my bridesmaid, and Lucian’s brother, Richard, stood up with him. After the ceremony, we went to my parents’ house, where my mother fixed a home cooked meal.

It snowed during the ceremony and was still snowing when Lucian and I drove to Oshkosh, where we spent our wedding night. The next morning we drove on to Chicago and stayed at a hotel on Michigan Avenue.

I don’t remember what we did, but I do remember we had a nice time.

Charivari Pulaski is a quiet little village. There’s not much excitement. Well, the night we got back from our honeymoon, we thought we were in the wrong town. We couldn’t imagine what the noise was all about. We looked out our apartment window and could hardly believe our eyes: there in the yard stood teachers from my school.

They were banging pots and pans, playing horns, blowing whistles, and even setting off firecrackers.

Do you know what a Charivari is? Well, it’s a party meant to surprise a newlywed couple. And I must tell you that this was a Charivari at its finest—we were surprised!

It’s kind of funny to think the word charivari is from the Roman word caribaria and means headache. I guess the headache part comes from all the noise. Anyway, the tradition has been around for over seven hundred years. I don’t hear about Charivaris any more, and that’s too bad because we had so much fun.

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The Mail Sack After the New Year holiday, I returned to teaching and Lucian returned to running Cash Way. Then, just as Lucian predicted, he was drafted, and in April of 1942, he left for his basic training in the United States Air Force. I stored our furniture, moved out of our apartment, and went back to the Riordans—the couple I lived with before Lucian and I got married. They were so nice—so friendly—I stayed with them until Lucian was discharged from the service.

That summer, a girlfriend and I rode a train to California, where Lucian was stationed. Much to my surprise the base was on full-alert, so no one was allowed to leave, for any reason. Naturally, I was disappointed but didn’t think there was much I could do about it.

Lucian had a different notion. He wasn’t going to miss out on seeing me. Well, Lucian worked in the mailroom, so a friend stuffed him in a mail sack and hauled him to my hotel. Oh my! If anyone found out, he would have been in trouble. Big trouble.

Very Odd From California, Lucian was stationed in Ogden, Utah, and I didn’t see him until June of 1943, when I went to Ogden and lived with him for the summer. In September, Lucian was sent overseas to Italy, so I returned to Pulaski. I didn’t see him again until he came home in August of 1945.

I hated to see Lucian leave, but, at least, he worked in the Air Force’s postal department for the entire war.

So, unlike others, he was as safe as he could be.

The odd thing was I was married, but I wasn’t married. With my husband away for so long it was like being single. Odd. Very odd.

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Lucian and Maddy in Chico, California

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Busy I kept myself busy teaching and going out with my friends. My girlfriends were nice girls, who taught at my school. We went to movies and out to eat. You know—the regular things girlfriends do together. I was lucky that I was like a daughter to the Riordans, so they took me places and were good to me. I stayed close to them for their entire lives, and they were like fairy godparents to my children. The Riordans shared Christmas Eve with us every year—it wouldn’t have been Christmas without them.

V-Mail I didn’t have a television—nobody did—so to keep up with news about the war, I listened to the radio and read the newspaper. Every now and then, I’d pick up a thing or two from Lucian’s letters, but not much.

You see, during the war, letters written by military personnel were censored—that meant somebody in the War Department read the letter before it was sent and snipped out words and sentences that might reveal classified information. So by the time I received Lucian’s letters, they were full of holes.

Even though Lucian and I wrote back-and-forth every day, the letters didn’t come every day. They came in packs. Back in those days, folks never considered making long-distance, overseas phone calls, so letters meant everything to everybody. Millions and millions of letters were written, but the problem was, at the beginning of the war, mail was held up in favor of supplies.

Well, when servicemen and their families didn’t get mail they were very, very sad. That’s why the government came up with the idea of V-Mail. The V meant Victory! Letters were written on pieces of paper that were only 4 ½ by 5 inches. Then, they were microfilmed, and the microfilm was sent in place of the actual letter.

This system saved weight and cargo space and still got letters to troops overseas and home to their families.

Terrible I want to tell you that World War II was just like every other war: terrible. Parents lost sons; women lost husbands; children lost fathers; friends lost friends. It was rough. Real rough. Lucian had four brothers who fought in the war. They all came home safely, so his family was lucky. And so was I.

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Rationing Like other women on the home front, I did whatever I could to help the war effort. During the war, many items were rationed, so I volunteered with the War Price and Rationing Board and gave out ration coupons at school. Each person in a household received a ration book—even babies and small children because they were allowed to get canned milk adults couldn’t get.

Here’s how rationing worked: You couldn’t just walk into a store and buy as much sugar, or butter, or meat, or coffee, or cheese as you wanted. All these things were rationed. That meant you were only allowed to buy small amounts, even if you could afford more. The government introduced rationing because certain things were in short supply, and rationing was the way to make sure everyone got a fair share.

Some items, like sugar, you got your equal share. Some items, like cheese, you were assigned points and you could spend your ration coupons for any combination of things in this group. Some items, like gas and fuel oil, you got according to needs that varied. Some items, like cars and tires, you got only if you applied and showed a real need. Basically, once you used your points you couldn’t buy any more of that item. So there were lots of things we couldn’t get, but I don’t remember going without.

Cigarettes weren’t rationed, but they were hard to get. You see, during the war, Americans loved to smoke, and why not? Everybody smoked: movie stars, famous people, old people, young people, men, women—even President Roosevelt smoked. During 1943, tobacco companies rolled 290 billion—Yes. That’s billion with a B—cigarettes.

Cigarettes were included in GI C-rations (little boxes that contained Government Issued meals). That meant tobacco companies sent millions of cigarettes overseas. So even with all the cigarettes that were produced, there was a shortage on the home front.

I wasn’t a heavy smoker, but I did smoke. Lucky for me, my family knew a man in the tavern business, and even though I had to make do with off-brands like Rameses or Pacaynus instead of the popular brands like Lucky Strike and Kool, I could get cigarettes.

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Proud Americans I want to tell you about patriotism during the war: people were proud to be Americans. Sure we were sad because so many people were killed, but we were proud of them. They died for freedom. They were heroes.

I’m still proud to be an American. During the war, I joined the American Legion Auxiliary, and until I got busy raising my kids, I was real active. I dropped out for a few years, but after my kids were grown, I rejoined, and even today—all these years later—I still go to meetings.

Newlywed Twice Some things in life you just can’t explain: I was married once, but I was a newlywed twice. In August of 1945, when Lucian finally came home from the war, it was like we were married all over again.

He couldn’t call from Italy to let me know he was on his way back to the States, but the very day his train pulled into Texas, my phone rang. “Hi, Maddy. I’m home. Meet me in Chicago,” he said. I don’t remember much about our reunion, except he brought me a necklace.

But I do remember I felt wonderful. Before long, we took up with the friends we had before the war; we bowled; we went out to eat; Lucian golfed with men; I golfed with women; we played cards. Nothing special—just the normal things married couples do. Still, it was great being together again.

The Model Bakery I was happy teaching, but Lucian had a problem: he didn’t have a job. Most likely, he could have gone back to Cash Way, but that’s not what he wanted to do. Lucian wanted to be his own boss. So—just like that—he looked around, found a store, and bought it. It was called the Model Bakery.

Lucian’s store had a few groceries, but mainly, it was a bakery. Lucian didn’t know yeast from baking powder. But so what? The store was his very own business. Luckily, the previous owner stayed on and helped him until he learned a thing or two about baking. Eventually, he hired a baker, and they worked together to bake the best bread anyone, anywhere, ever baked.

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The Model Bakery being torn down for the new store Maddy & Lucian’s first home was on the second floor over store.

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The Model Bakery had a brick oven. And you know those big wooden bakers’ paddles? Well, they used those paddles to shove the bread in the oven. And, Oh my! it smelled so good and was so delicious, people still talk about it.

And I agree. Every now and then I sit and think I sure wish I had a loaf of Lucian’s bread.

One More Thing Lucian worked hard—to run the store and manage the bakery he had to. The store was closed Wednesday evening and all day Sunday, but other days he was gone fourteen, fifteen, even sixteen hours. Lucian was supposed to be home with me evenings, but after supper, he usually went back to the store to check on something or the other. And you know how that is: he always found one more thing . . . one more thing . . . one more thing he just had to do.

There were times when I was upset because he worked so much. But I guess it wasn’t too bad because that’s the only disagreement we ever had. When the kids came along, I did almost everything for them. Lucian was good with them when he was around, but he wasn’t around too much. He couldn’t be. Over the years, I got used to it, and we did fine. Just fine.

Lucian never took vacations; he never even took a regular day off. Every so often, he played a round of golf on Thursday afternoon, but, for sure, not every Thursday. About the only time we got away together was when he took me to a grocery store convention. They were usually in Minneapolis, and that was nice. But, years later, going to Hawaii and as far away as South America was really nice.

Satisfied Lucian and I lived in an apartment above the store. We had a kitchen, dining room, living room, bathroom, four bedrooms, and even an attic. It was big enough, but we had to go up steps to get there. I guess it wasn’t too bad, though, because, back then, we were young.

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We didn’t have a budget. We didn’t need one. Our apartment was included in what Lucian paid for store, and we got our food from the store. When I think back, our life together was easy: Lucian was Polish, but his traditions were the same as mine. He liked everything, so he was easy to cook for. We didn’t have lot, but we had enough. We were satisfied.

I liked the security of married life. It was nice. It was fun. The only thing I didn’t like was when Lucian had too many martinis. He liked his martinis. He never got drunk, but the truth is sometimes he had a few too many, and that upset me—at least a little.

The Red Owl, Lucian’s store

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Maddy and Susan 1949

My Children

Just Like That Lucian got home from the war in August of ‘45, and in no time—just like that—I was pregnant. Let me think . . . it was probably late December because Joan, our first, was born in September of 1946. I taught until the school year ended in 1946. After that, I never taught again.

I was happy to be pregnant. It wasn’t bad, at all. Most women are sick in the morning. Not me. I was healthy the entire nine months, and Joan’s birth was normal. Actually, all five births were normal. I never even had stitches. So I was lucky.

Nothing Happened With Joan being the first, I went to the hospital too early. I should have waited, but my water broke, so I thought it was time. But, then, with your first one, you don’t know much.

Lucian and I didn’t have a car, so friends drove us to the hospital. Well, our Joan Catherine wouldn’t come and wouldn’t come, so Lucian finally gave up and went back to the store. I remember people coming-andgoing, in-and-out of my room. But I just laid there. Nothing happened. I thought she’d never get here.

Lucian got back to the hospital while I was still in labor, but he had to wait in the father’s waiting room— when my kids were born, fathers weren’t allowed anywhere near the delivery room. Like all women, back then, I stayed in the hospital an entire week and couldn’t get out of bed except to go to the bathroom.

Nowadays, my gosh, new mothers are in and out in no time. I think that’s better. The longer you stay in the hospital, the weaker you are. You need to get up and get on with your life.

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Eddie Cantor Susan Jane (Sue) was next. She was born on Election Day—November of 1948. Ann Marie was born in January of 1952. Judith Ellen (Judy) was born in January of 1954. James Lee (Jim) was born on Mother’s Day—May of 1958. I went to a wedding the afternoon Jim was born. I didn’t dance, but I sure ate a lot. And in case anybody wonders: don’t eat lots of goodies right before you have a baby. I remember that!

Before Jim was born Lucian claimed he was like the entertainer Eddie Cantor—the father of all girls, and no boys. Then Jim arrived. Oh my goodness! Lucian was so happy. We were all happy. The girls treated Jim like their little baby doll. He was the apple of their eye, and that was good.

At least it was good until Jim got older. Then, it was girls, girls, and more girls. His dad was, of course, the only other boy in our house, but he wasn’t around too often. Poor Jim. His days were full of female voices bossing him around. “Wash your hands!” . . . “ Take a bath!” . . . “Do this!” . . . “Do that!”

I guess he learned to block us out because today he doesn’t pay any attention when we talk to him! But, then, it wasn’t easy being the only boy around all girls.

Sure, I was from a big family. Sure, I taught lots of little kids. But motherhood was different. When I look back, I realize I went along day-by-day and did what a mother was expected to do: I took care of them; I loved them. And that’s the best a mother can do.

211 Summit Street We lived in the apartment above the store until after Ann was born. By then, Lucian’s store was part of the Red Owl grocery store chain, so he decided to build a new store on the property in back of his old store.

His new store was much bigger, and he carried a larger selection of groceries and added meat. It was the only “supermarket” in town.

A new store meant we had to find a new place to live. Well, Pulaski’s undertaker lived across the street from the store. He and his wife built a real nice house at 211 Summit Street. But, by then, they were old and died soon after they moved in.

I was sorry for them but happy for us. We bought their house for $18,000, and that’s where I lived until Lucian died, and I moved into an apartment.

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Family Home 211 Summit St. Pulaski, Wisconsin

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Joan, Susan, Ann and Judy

Joan and Judy at Easter

Proud I always went to my children’s doings at school, and I was proud of each of them, in their own ways. I was proud of their accomplishments; I was proud of how well they treated others. My kids were (and still are!) good kids. We probably had some hard times, but now that my kids are grown, I forget what they were.

When I look back, I can’t put my finger on a single thing I didn’t like about being a mother. Not one.

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The sisters with Jim

New dolls for Ann and Judy

I liked the kids; I liked to take care of them; I liked to doll them up; I liked to take pictures; I liked to give them parties—they each had a First Communion and Confirmation party. Then, there were birthday parties—each year, each child had their very own birthday party. It’s important to feel special, all by yourself, on your birthday. Lucian made their cakes, and I did the rest. We always had so much fun.

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Normal Things A mother of five children doesn’t think about all the work. She just does it. I was lucky because my kids were healthy. Sure, they had their share of cuts and bruises, but nothing bad ever happened to any of them. All-in-all, our life was what I call “normal.” We did normal family things: visited relatives, went out to eat, watched them grow up—you know, normal things . . .

My girls hollered at each other about clothes. They each had plenty of their own, but every once in awhile, they’d sneak one of their sisters’ outfits. Then, Oh my! watch out: “That’s mine!”. . .“You can’t wear it!”. . .“Give it back!”. . .“Mom, she took my sweater!”. . .“MOM!” I have to laugh because today I live alone and have two bathrooms.

But when my five kids were growing up and we had seven people in our house, we had one bathroom. I guess it wasn’t too bad, though, because the girls didn’t spend as much time primping as they do now. There were times when they rapped on the bathroom door and said, “Hey! Come on. Get out,” but I don’t remember serious squabbles.

Maddy and Joan

Jim loved animals. He even had a rabbit. But I really remember his dogs. He’d show up with a stray dog and say, “Mom, I found this dog.” He looked so innocent, but I was onto him.

I’d say, “Jim, that’s not your dog. You can’t keep it,” and back it went. Lucian and I finally broke down and bought Jim a Scottie dog. We had that dog a long time before we had to put him to sleep.

Are Family The family I raised is like the family I grew up in—close. I think it’s natural to be close to your brothers and sisters. After all, you have the same parents, and you do the same things. Sure, some people are closer to their friends than they are to their family. But with a family there’s something that pulls you together. I can’t tell you what it is, but it’s something. Maybe it’s blood. But, then again, maybe it’s because you are family.

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Lucian & Maddy

Saturday Night Dates Even though Lucian was busy with the store and I was busy with the kids, every Saturday night we had a date. We never missed. Lucian loved to go out to eat, so we’d get a babysitter and go out with one or two other couples. We went to lots of different restaurants, but our favorite was the Limestone. You know how it is: we liked owners; we got to know them; they got to know us; they liked us; we kept going back. That was a nice, friendly feeling.

One of our friends owned a store like Lucian’s. Well, the men always wanted to get new ideas about the grocery business, so some Saturdays we’d visit a store that had just opened and go out to eat after. After all, the grocery business was what they were interested in—it was their life.

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For Sure This is hard: I can’t say, for sure, that I was a good mother. But, then, I know, for sure, my mother was a good mother, and I learned from her. I think I have some of her characteristics. Actually, I’m sure I do: I was always home when my children got home from school; I did my best to take care of them. When I’m gone, I hope they remember me, in part, for that.

I hope my children remember the things I tried to teach them: be honest; be a good person. You never know, for sure, if you really taught your children values. You try, but you don’t know for sure. They pick up values as they go along, and if you’re good, they’ll be good, too. That’s what I think anyway.

I can say, for sure, that Lucian was a good person—a wonderful man—an honest man. He took care of the children; he was proud of them; he liked to give them treats. At Christmastime, he was extra busy in the store, but he always took one night off so he could go out and buy presents for the kids. I don’t remember what he bought for Jim, but each year, all by himself, he picked out a special dress for each girl.

When you go along day-to-day, you don’t think about what makes a “good” father or a “good” mother.

It’s different for different people. But, you know, now that I look back and think about it, I can say, for sure, that I was a good mother and Lucian was a good father. I just hope our kids agree!

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Ann, Susan, Joan, Judy, James Christmas 1960

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Maddy with granddaughter, Sara, at the Grand Canyon

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My Grandchildren & Great-grandchildren Much Easier I’m a grandma now. And, you know, grandmothers have it easier than mothers. Much easier. Grandmas can give them back; Grandmas can spoil them; Grandmas have fewer worries.

But the truth is I don’t see my grandchildren too often. They don’t live in my hometown, and I don’t travel much, so I’m not close to them. I can’t be. They don’t really know me. But I want them to know I love them; I want them to know Lucian loved them.

Hopes I guess all grandmas have hopes for their grandchildren. I do. If I had my grandchildren and great-grandchildren—Robb, Jill, Kate, Sara, Dane, Melissa, Jackie, Nick, Allison, Andrew, Megan, Ryan, Caroline, Alexis, Keenan, Elizabeth, Sean, Julia, and Nicole—in front of me now here’s what I’d say, “I hope you’re good kids; I hope you do what you’re expected to do; I hope you do what your parents say; I hope you love your parents; I hope the best for each and every one of you.”

And I hope my grandchildren remember my Christmas cookies—when they were young and visited at Christmastime, the minute they got out of the car and came in the house, they ran for the storage room and went right for my cookies.

I also hope they remember to enjoy a good hot fudge sundae and that popcorn can be a meal!

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Maddy & Lucian At Convention for Red Owl

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My Life as a Widow Never Complained Shortly after Lucian retired, he was diagnosed with cancer. It started in his bladder, moved to his colon, attacked his liver, and spread from there. Every day, for five years, he changed his colostomy bag. That was hard, but it became part of his everyday life, and he never complained.

Lucian was never admitted to the hospital. He lived at home, and I took care of him. He got around pretty well and could eat right up to the end. Ann, Judy, and Joan all live within twenty minutes of me and were a tremendous help. I don’t know how I would have managed without Joan’s nursing skills.

Lucian knew he was dying. I knew he was dying. That was sad, but we didn’t talk about it—at least not much.

Love Each Other When it got close to the end, Sue came to Pulaski to be with me and her dad. Well, she likes Chop Suey, so I made a big batch. The family was sitting in the living room, getting ready for supper, when I asked Lucian, “Do you want some Chop Suey?”

“Hell, no!” were the last words he ever said to me.

We’d arranged for Hospice to come to the house that night, but the nurse wasn’t there yet, so Joan helped her dad to bed. Shortly after, when she checked on him, he was dead. It was fast.

Lucian was a good husband. We were married forty-five years. That’s a long time. Over the years, I learned a thing or two about marriage: marriage is about give-and-take; you both have to work at it; you have to overlook their faults; they have to overlook yours; your spouse must come first in your life.

The best way to say it is this: just love each other.

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Carried On After Lucian died, I’d get busy around the house and, without thinking, I’d expect to see him still sitting in his chair. Sometimes I’d almost start to talk to him. But I never showed how much I missed him. I never cried in front of other people. Yet, when I was home, all alone, I’d let it out: I was sad . . . lonely . . . blue.

Still, I knew I had to keep going, so I carried on like nothing ever happened. When I was alone I’d have a good cry and talk to myself: Maddy, you have to go on living. And I did. I went to church; I went to my Bridge club; I went out with friends. That helped a lot.

Probably the thing that helped most was my faith. It helped directly after Lucian died, and it still helps today. I put it in His hands. I pray. “God, You take care of this. I can’t do it without You. That’s just the way it is. Amen.”

I never wanted to remarry; I never thought about it; I never even wanted to go out with a man. But even if I did, I never saw anybody I liked!

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Back row Susan, James, Ann, Judy Front row Lucian, Maddy, Joan 1978

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My Faith

A Good Thing I’m Catholic. The church has changed a lot since my young days. Still, some things are the same: we still believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost; the Pope is still the head of our church; we still have seven sacraments: Baptism, Confirmation, Communion, Penance, Extreme Unction, Holy Orders, and Matrimony.

We still do nice things for people all over the world. That’s what Catholics are expected to do—help people who are having a hard time. I like that. It’s important for the Catholic Church to take people under its wing and give them a boost. That’s a good thing.

Closer The changes came about in ways we do some things: Mass is in English instead of Latin; we don’t get dressed up for Mass; we can eat meat on Friday, except during Lent; people are friendlier. And confession is different—it is for me anyway. When I was younger, I went to confession every week, or at least every month, but today I don’t go too often. And that’s okay.

It’s hard to say exactly what makes the difference, but something does. Everything used to seem so far away.

But now I feel . . . I feel . . . closer to the priests and closer to the Lord. Yes. Closer. That’s the word.

Perhaps, that’s what helped me when, on November 3, 2008, my twenty-two-year-old grandson Nick died.

Nick had several disabilities, so his parents (my son Jim and my daughter-in-law Elaine), along with Nick’s three sisters, took excellent and loving care of him. The entire family was very, very sad to lose Nick.

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My Travels

Every State, Except Texas I love to travel. After Lucian retired, and still felt good, I told him I wanted to travel, and he went along with it. We had many, many good trips: We took a bus tour to Canada; we drove to Florida; we visited New York; we even went as far away as Washington. Actually, we saw every state in the United States, except Texas. That was lots of fun.

Fun Trips After Lucian died, I continued to travel. Long trips are fun, but I enjoy day trips, too. For one, I love the theatre in Milwaukee. I love musicals. I enjoy Fiddler on the Roof, but my favorite musical of all time is Les Misérables. It has such pretty music that I saw it three times—once in New York, once in Chicago, once in Florida.

My daughter, Sue, lives in Pennsylvania near New York City. Around the time of my eightieth birthday my sisters, Jayne and Dorothy, and I visited her. We celebrated the day in New York with lunch at Tavern on the Green in Central Park. That was so much fun.

For years, I went to national conventions with my bowling team. My bowling average couldn’t be more than a hundred, so I didn’t bowl. But I didn’t go to bowl. I went to be with my friends; I went to have fun. After the tournament we ate at a nice restaurant, talked, laughed, and had so much fun. I’m lucky because I have good friends who like to have fun.

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Maddy in Ireland 2000

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Half ‘n Half People look to their ancestors for their history—at least I do. I’m half-Irish, so, naturally, I wanted to visit Ireland. Lucian really wanted to go back to Italy, where he’d served in the war, but we never got there. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to me, so after Lucian died, I took my five children—no spouses—to Ireland and England.

I don’t like to fly, but I made up my mind that if I really wanted to make the trip, I had to fly. I’m happy I did. We did so many things and had such a nice time: We had the best guide; she gave us an excellent tour of Ireland and England; we stopped at little pubs; we visited famous places like the House of Waterford Crystal; we even saw Sue’s son Dane, who was at Oxford.

I always say, “I’m half ‘n half.” What I mean is I’m half-Irish and half-German. The Irish are very proud of their nationality; they think they’re the greatest—even though some aren’t! But, you know, people learn from their ancestors, and there’s nothing wrong with being proud. Nothing. When the Irish came to America, they had a hard time, but somehow they weathered the storm. That, alone, is a reason to be proud.

5 sisters (LtoR) Gert, Jayne, Maddy, Catherine and Dorothy Birthday Limo Adventure

Jayne driving next to her Dorothy Maddy and Catherine riding in red convertible visiting Florida

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My Volunteer Work Important I’m lucky. People in Pulaski know me for my volunteer work; my family and friends know me for my volunteer work. That’s important. Very important.

Red Cross From way back, I loved the Red Cross. During World War II, I put packages together that contained plastic blood bags. I also attended to blood donors—my job was to walk around and give them water and cold towels. Over the years, my jobs changed some, but I changed with them.

Meals on Wheels I delivered Meals on Wheels. What I remember most is that people were always happy to see me. I couldn’t spend much time visiting with these nice people because I had other hot meals in the car, but I felt good because they were appreciative.

Catholic Women’s Auxiliary For more years than I can count, I did everything I could to help the Catholic Women’s Auxiliary: I set up tables, served meals, and cleared tables for funeral dinners. I even counseled Catholic women.

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School Library For many, many years, I volunteered in the school library. Even during the summertime, I helped the head librarian pay invoices and type cards for new books. I loved to see kids in the library, all excited.

I loved to check out their books. The librarian was also the school’s art teacher, and I loved to help her clean up her art room. Then, one year, I even had the chance to be the librarian, all by myself. That was fun.

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Maddy with granddaughters Jill (Right), Sara (Back) And husbands Matt and Matt

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My Life Now What Should I Do? I can’t tell you I have special talents. I don’t. I can, though, tell you volunteer work was what I enjoyed most. I loved it; I loved being helpful; I loved being with people; I loved being active. And I can tell you something else: because I can’t see any more, I can’t volunteer—I can’t do what I want to do—I can’t do what I love to do. That’s hard. I sure wish I could, but . . .

For one, I’m not as active in church as I used to be. Up until about a year ago, I went regularly to the Council of Catholic Women’s meetings, but I don’t go anymore. I can’t see who’s sitting next to me. The women know I can’t see, but they forget.

I try to not think about it, but the truth is my sight keeps getting worse. I can still see shadows, so I turn on the television. That keeps me company—at least somewhat—but it’s not the same as getting out and being with people as much as I would like to.

Not being able to read is especially hard. I have a machine that helps me read the newspaper, but it doesn’t work for a book—that would take forever. I listen to books on tape, but it’s not the same as holding a book in my hands, reading it with my eyes, feeling it in my heart.

I still play cards, but not much longer. I can see the cards in my hand, but I can’t see the cards on the table.

My Bridge club friends are good to me. They beg me over and over: “Maddy, don’t quit! Please don’t quit!”

But I’m frustrated. When I get home I sit all by myself and wonder: What should I do? Should I go? Should I quit? But let me tell you something: I’ve been in the same Bridge club over sixty years, and it’s very important to me. I love it. So maybe . . .

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Macular degeneration is, by far, the worst thing that ever happened to me. I drove until I was eighty-five, but six years ago, I stopped driving—I can’t see well enough. So, nowadays, I don’t have a choice: I sit home a lot, but I’m lucky because Joan, Ann, Judy and a good friend, Sue Binstrub, live nearby, and they take me places. We visit friends, see shows and plays, go out to dinner, and shop.

Sometimes Jim and his family drive from Milwaukee and spend the weekend, and it’s nice to have them around for a couple days.

Sue lives furthest away, but she calls and when she comes to visit we’re always busy and have fun.

Friends from church and my Bridge club also offer to take me places. I miss being able to do the same for them.

I’m Thankful Even with though I have macular degeneration, I want you to know I’m thankful—I’m thankful because, until now anyway, I was healthy. I’m thankful because I have a nice family. I’m thankful because my family is healthy. Health is a big thing, you know. All-in-all I’m lucky; I appreciate my life.

Accept Your Life When I get to feeling really, really down, I pray. Yes. I pray. Then, sometimes I cry. Then, sometimes I sit and think: Maddy, don’t look too far ahead. This is another day. Take life one day at a time, and you’ll be fine—just fine.

I don’t mean to be a broken record, but what my mother believed is worth repeating: accept your life as it is, and things will turn out the way they’re supposed to.

My Story That’s my life and times. I hope you enjoyed reading my story as much as I enjoyed telling it to you.

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Maddy’s 90th birthday

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Stories are that place where those who have gone before us still make a difference— where roots grow deep.

Bob Welch

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Between The Lines Stories are our most precious gift. They shape those who follow up. Our stories protect, guide, advise, console, celebrate, and preserve our heritage. After all, it’s our stories, not our sterling, that link generations.

Thank you, Tammy Surratt, Owner & President of Legacy Family Office, for your vision. Thank you, Sue and Dennis Holewinski, for your enthusiasm and ongoing support.

And, Maddy . . . Thank you, Maddy, for your sense of humor, your pride, your spirit, your love of family and friends—a love that is returned for time and all eternity. It is an honor and a privilege to preserve your legacy.

Judith Kolva, Ph.D. is the founder and CEO of Memoir Shoppe. She is a trusted interviewer, expert researcher, gifted writer, and accomplished educator. Judith travels worldwide transforming precious memories into priceless, bespoke memoirs.

Please contact Judith at Office: 954-759-4531 Cell: 954-856-6646 Email: judith@memoirshoppe.com 103