Hindsight in 2020

I am told that in late 1954 our minister, returning from a trip to the Holy Land, brought home a container of water from a sacred river. As family legend has it my entry into the world aligned nicely with his return. Thus, I was baptized with water from the River Jordan. As a child I did not understand the significance of this symbolic gift.

But life makes the most sense in hindsight. We all journey along somewhat random paths, sometimes to unexpected destinations and often with stops along the way. For some, the path is established early on and the road is merely followed. And then there are those of us more prone to stumble, willfully heading off in new directions, only to find that we never left the path at all. That’s when a look back becomes clarifying.

I have officially been a Lutheran since 1990. That’s the year my young family moved to a new town and sought out a church to call home. My wife was raised Catholic and I was brought up Methodist. We were both open to compromising our affiliation so long as we didn’t compromise our values. Around this time my wife discovered that her grandfather had been Lutheran. Apparently her grandmother insisted he convert, but the discovery brought with it a sense that her family’s faith had come full circle.

Twenty years earlier my family suffered a sad series of losses. We lived in Park Ridge, Illinois at the time. The first tragedy we didn’t see coming, though had my stubborn Swedish father acknowledged symptoms that are now considered classic warning signs of a heart attack perhaps the story would have ended more happily, or at least not so soon. We were thankful that he was transported to Lutheran General Hospital and received life saving care in the 8^th floor Coronary Unit, but his delay in seeking treatment prevented a positive outcome. He died two days later as the result of a very preventable accident while we stood horrified at his bedside. But that’s another story.

The metaphorical black cloud that settled over those of us he left behind continued to hover for the next five years. The day after my father’s funeral my grandfather went into the hospital. He never came home. My mother soon experienced a resurgence of Lupus, a mysterious illness that sickened her while in her twenties. This time it would not go into remission, ravaging her in seemingly random eruptions of increasingly debilitating symptoms. Her mother moved in with us to help care for her daughter. They had both lost their husbands within three weeks and soon Grandma lost her only child. She and I became unintended roommates, the remnants of a family that had rapidly dwindled from five members to only two.

At age sixteen, I had no familiarity with Lutheranism. To me, the name possibly indicated a region within a country or reflected some major donor’s last name. As a result of the traumatic episode that ended my father’s life, that Lutheranhospital became a place of painful association that I never cared to see again. 

But see it I did, as if summoned for a reckoning. As a recent graduate with a degree in Medical Technology, I was placed in an internship at Lutheran General, graciously near my home in Park Ridge. I was thrilled to have a nearby placement, but conflicted over feelings that surfaced regarding my last time spent in that building. I recall that during the first week on site, distracted by unresolved feelings of anger and grief, I got on the elevator and took it to the 8^th floor to face my ghosts. To my surprise, the unit had been totally transformed since 1970, which helped alleviate the haunted house images I carried through the intervening years. The place was gone. Cleansed. Different. It brought sudden and necessary closure I would never have received without my fortunate placement. I worked there for the next eleven years, and in 1985 a beautiful young Technologist from another laboratory became my partner for life on a journey together down a newly shared path.

Within a year my grandmother could no longer live in an unsupervised environment. A sequence of events including a fall at home, a broken hip, gallbladder surgery and a heart arrhythmia made it clear that she required nursing care. The search began within several miles of home. One location after another proved disappointing or downright disgusting, until we happened across a smaller, less industrial looking setting within a mile of the house. There it was – Saint Matthew’s Lutheran Home. That word again, familiar now and taking on increasing significance. It began to seem that at every turn, Lutheran people and solutions stepped into our path and took us by the hand. Was it caring, concern, human kindness, good business or good works? I still didn’t know. But the Lutherans certainly had my attention.

Any sense of sadness Grandma may have felt at “losing” me to my young wife was tempered by the realization that she was one step closer to achieving her fondest wish, becoming a great grandmother. She began to repeat, chant-like, “I may not be here next year,” often with a sigh and a look of resignation out the window. Ah, yes, she could certainly hand out a heaping helping of guilt along with her tasty home cooking.

Holidays came and went and her aging body began to fail. My wife and I visited frequently, and I stopped by almost daily on my lunch hour from my Lutheran workplace across the street at the hospital. Finally, one warm spring evening we planned a special outing and gave Grandma the news. We were expecting! Widened, misty eyes were supported by a smile from ear to ear.

            “I’m going to live to hold that baby!” became Grandma’s new mantra.

Our happy news was to be short-lived. Grandma’s health continued to decline. She went through a progression of rooms at Saint Matthew’s in which were provided increasing levels of care. And then my wife began to bleed. We lost the baby.

We discussed our options amidst our grief. If Grandma failed to live nine months she would never know the difference. To reveal the truth might hasten her decline. Instead, we kept up the appearance that everything was fine. Her malfunctioning sense of time was on our side.

Six months later my wife’s belly began to swell again and we carried on the story as if nothing had happened. We counted heavily on Grandma’s disorientation with the calendar not to give us away. The weeks passed. Grandma weakened. Urgent calls in the night were followed by hospitalizations and long recovery periods. I prayed for the first time in years as I felt my last link to the past, my only bloodline, slipping away.

            “Dear God, please” was all I could say.

A baby boy was born at Lutheran General on a hot July morning. I nearly ran across the street to the nursing home, camera in tow and a frenzied look on my face. I was advised against taking Grandma out in the heat, but by then the caring staff at Saint Matthew’s was monitoring our progress and making special concessions.

Grandma was confused by all the commotion. I silently said my thanks to God for the opportunity. Our baby cried in Grandma’s arms as she cradled and rocked, raising him to her lips to kiss his little face and urging him to behave. She held his tiny hand in hers, wrinkles against newborn creases, age against innocence, frozen in time on a priceless frame of film.

Our race was over. We finished and won. Grandma seemed to rally temporarily, but then began to slip away forever. We visited her with the baby as much as possible during those few remaining weeks.  On what proved to be her final afternoon, she seemed more alert than usual, but drifted in and out of sleep, aggravated by a feeding tube in her nose. The faded orange curtains on her window rustled softly in a hot August breeze and blocked the summer sun as we held our final conversation. 

            “I’m sorry I’m such a burden to you,” she whispered, sadly looking up at me.

            “Why do you say that, Grandma? You’d do the same for me”

She nodded her head slightly and tightened her lips “But you shouldn’t have to go through this again” she said.

I considered the best response to such a soulful concern, and simply let it come from the voice in my heart.

            “I’m a very lucky guy to have had two mothers” I confided to her with an unsteady voice. And then I choked and whispered, “It’s just so hard to lose you both.”            

I left the room as she drifted off to sleep. From the doorway I turned to look back at her motionless body, just as the curtains lifted away from the window in a gentle gust of hot air and then settled back, as if from a breath. Grandma stirred and said a few words that I couldn’t hear. She may have commented on the motion of the drapes or the sun in the window. She may have said nothing at all, I’ll never know. But a part of me would like to believe she was true to form at the very end, saying:

            “I told you I’d live to hold your baby!” 

Against all advice about making changes in the wake of loss, we took new jobs, moved away and essentially re-invented our lives. Settling into a similar town fifteen miles distant we found a place that would be our church home for the next twenty-five years. The choice was made – Lutheran Church of the Holy Spirit, an ELCA congregation in Lincolnshire, Illinois. There it was again, the name we’ve come to know and love.

Our daughter was born shortly after and was the first baptism by a newly called married pastoral couple who became our dear friends. Years later, hers was the final wedding they performed prior to retiring. To call this place special does it a disservice. It was core to our faith, family and friends and became the center of our servant-oriented lifestyle. We couldn’t imagine it any other way.

But there would be another way. Children grow up and move on. Adults retire. And so the search began again in a distant setting over 1300 miles away. Our new community in Florida is demographically quite different than Illinois. I am frequently called, “young man” by newly discovered friends in Port Charlotte. I’ll take that! And as we settle into Holy Trinity Lutheran Church we marvel at our good fortune for having located a congregation led by another married pastoral couple! What are the odds?

And here’s the latest channel marker on this voyage through sometimes-turbulent waters. A nice gentleman and his wife sit just in front of the pew we have “claimed” on Sunday morning. At this church we all wear nametags, and I joked when I noticed his last name was Luther.

            “Well, you certainly joined the right church!”

It is no joke. He proceeded to tell us that he is a direct descendant of Martin Luther!

We hope to remain at this church, and in this home for quite some time. The path that led here could not have been planned better had we tried, and now it all makes wonderful sense. We’ve been Lutheran all along.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

The Cone of Uncertainty

We had a bit of seasonal anxiety here in Florida this week, watching and preparing once again for our imminent doom as it inched closer in the Atlantic. At risk of over-dramatizing, the feeling is akin to that experienced by a banana about to be dropped into a blender as part of a protein shake. Poor banana. In this metaphor the twelfth named storm of the season, Laura, having missed us and become a hurricane, is approaching Texas and Louisiana, and they are alternately protein and banana. And if the buildup to a big storm isn’t nerve wracking enough, this one is traveling at about seventeen miles per hour, moving toward the United States coast faster than a human can run. This means that evacuees can’t easily ooze away from the approaching danger without clotting on the highways. 

This is not meant to diminish the real horror wrought on Haiti and the Dominican Republic. Those poor souls just had yet another devil parked on top of their little archipelago, tearing apart comparatively flimsy structures with the savage force of a powerful tornado. Shelter and pray as they might, they face death for now and an uncertain future later. Meanwhile, we elbow each other away from cases of water that we probably won’t need and wait in lines at the gas station at the last minute because we never learn. And some of us wear masks to protect each other from the wrenching evil that sun and humid trade winds won’t dispel after all.

We rolled the dice when we gave up our cozy, frosty nest in the north. The very real danger of slipping on ice and being found just a bit late, tongue frozen to the sidewalk during a last cry for help as mitochondria quit functioning is the final humbling event we chanced by living there. Here in the south, we develop an intimate relationship with that eighty percent liquid we’ve always been told we’re made of. Outdoor activity in Florida can drain you of vital fluid without much effort. Jane Stroke sneaks up with far less warning than her cousin Jack Frost, who cutely nips at your nose. Here you’re suddenly face down and with any luck soon being pumped full of saline at a local ER. If not, oh well, you can brag in Heaven that you swam in January in your Earthly paradise.

Not to be outdone by our beer-swilling peers, we are planning Part Two of a dairy counterpart this week, participating in an ice cream crawl on the hottest of weekdays. We visit seven destinations, each tantalizingly similar but different, all offering a unique range of flavors and textures. Since we are all either confirmed or aspirationally pre-diabetic, we choose to purchase two single small scoops at each stop, then divvy them up four ways. We thus minimize quantity and maximize the number of flavors we taste. By the fourth stop of Part One I recalled the weekend we spent at a chocolate fest, the only time in my life I said, “enough!”

So, I’m heading out to Dairy Queen to practice. They stay open despite the pandemic or any passing disaster. And on the chance that a hurricane eventually prevents me from ever enjoying another Blizzard on Earth, my personal testament to the struggle between good and evil, I’ll pass through the pearly gates with one question for Saint Peter: “Is there ice cream here?”

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

15B

I sit exhausted in 15C, an aisle seat. Our plane is being held for a connecting flight after our first leg from New York to Denver. The illusion that half the seats will be empty is soon dispelled. As somewhat frazzled passengers begin the journey to the back of the plane I find myself holding my breath.

 

Oh, no, please not the woman with the baby. She is a pathos engine. The kid’s tear-stained cheeks speak to the ordeal they’ve been through on the first part of their journey. I have nothing left to give. Call me bitter, but I’ve completed my own parenting phase and have little patience for other people’s children.

 

Next comes the world-traveling backpacker. I can smell him almost from the time he steps across that disconcerting four inch gap between the jetway and the illuminated fuselage entry, turns right past the wincing flight attendant and starts scoping out bins where he can stuff his filthy, overstuffed carry-on. Fortunately he is seated in row 23, but he lingers in the air long after he passes, when the air handling system can filter his stench with the rest of the cabin’s toxins.

 

The guy in 14C is going to be a problem. I’ve seen his type before. I estimate that somewhere over the Continental Divide his seat back will drop like a rock into my lap, leaving me no room to lower my tray or prop up my iPad.

 

Then comes the huffing and puffing IT dude, sweating through his form fitting polo shirt and clearly in need of a lap belt extender. He struggles to balance his phone, adjust his Bluetooth headset and pull a laptop from the outside pocket of his bag. Row 12. I breathe a sigh of relief. My antipathy to his weight struggle is rooted in deep denial of my own passion for high calorie snacks. It is my lifelong battle, but I stopped wearing clingy shirts years ago.

 

I spend several anxious moments monitoring a strange and unilateral conversation between a lone male passenger in 14D and a young couple with a baby in 14E and 14F. He probes with a series of questions, possibly to make small talk, but tainted with hints of, “Oh, it’s a shame your child is going to die on this flight without living almost any of his life.”

 

“Do you fly often?” he asks

“No, we were on vacation.”

“Where are you from?

“Santa Monica.”

“It’s really weird being 30,000 feet in the air.”

“Um, yeah.”

“That’s a long way to fall, heh heh.”

 

It doesn’t help that chatty passenger 14D has dark skin, possibly Middle Eastern, is traveling alone, very fidgety in his seat and gosh I can’t recall seeing him with anything but a personal item. How the young couple resists calling for an Air Marshall is beyond me. But then, I sit there in silence, fretting over my own potential circumstances, skipping my chance to “see something/say something” and trying not to stereotype.

 

By some miracle, 15B remains empty.  I am spared the uncomfortable hours of tight quarters above the clouds. There are times when my general anxiety over the miracle of flight benefits from the distraction of a talkative seatmate. But more often than not it feels more like an extended version of the awkward moments with strangers in an elevator, all front-facing silence, sidelong glances and holding breath.

 

I close my eyes and try to relax. There is no point in sleeping yet, but the whoosh of the air conditioning and the building engine hum are hypnotic. I nod off before the last passenger boards. It is 15B, possibly a model, who traverses the distance from first class to my row as if on a catwalk. I don’t see her double check her boarding pass as she approaches. I am unaware of her disgust at my open mouth and the bit of drool that has begun to make its way down my chin. I awake at her urgent request to be excused. I unbuckle my lap belt and backhand my spittle as I squeeze into the aisle. The speed at which she opens a magazine and inserts her ear buds is impressive. It’s going to be a long flight to LA.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

 

In Defense of Monday

I recall during my working years being sickened by afternoon on Sunday when thoughts of the approaching workweek began to rise up like indigestion after a spicy meal. I never slept well on Sunday nights. My favorite day of the week was not Friday, as in “Thank God it’s…” fame, but Thursday. Thursday, like the approach of the Christmas season in late November carries with it all the promise of wonderful times ahead, the closest you can get to Friday and its proximity to the weekend without actually being there.

But now that every day feels like Saturday I recognize the purpose of this often-maligned day. It brings much needed structure to the ups and downs of a week full of similar days, like the seasons confer upon the calendar. Like pleasure contrasts with pain.

Let us turn to the celebration of Monday in song for a moment.

The Mamas and the Papas knew Monday:

            Monday, Monday, can’t trust that day
            But whenever Monday comes,
            You can find me cryin’ all of the time

Yeah, well, that’s just a bad example.

The Carpenters were more upbeat:

            What I've got they used to call the blues
            Nothin' is really wrong
            Feelin' like I don't belong
            Walkin' around, some kind of lonely clown
            Rainy days and Mondays always get me down

Yeah, that doesn’t work either, but let’s blame the rain. Ok, how about The Bangles?

            It's just another manic Monday
            I wish it was Sunday
            'Cause that's my fun day

In Nordic cultures the second day of the week was dedicated to worshipping the goddess of the Moon. Moon Day. If you’re named Mona, your Anglo Saxon ancestors used the word Mondandaeg to describe your day. Of course, Sunday described the Sun’s day. That fun day. Monday is kind of second fiddle, cosmically speaking.

But without Monday, the weekend would have no outer boundary. Tuesday would become the bearer of our ill will. But I really think Monday provides a gentle let down, a recovery period from a potentially strenuous weekend full of all the stuff we delay all week. If you enjoy work, Monday is the day you ease back into a productive routine and tell tales of the weekend to enjoyable coworkers. The morning you get to grab a Styrofoam cup full of steaming sadness from a stainless steel silo and chew one of those bran muffins only the company cafeteria knows how to make. And like a cold or the flu, you really don’t fully appreciate feeling better except by comparison. And for that, Monday, Friday thanks you.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Praise the Lord and Pass the Mostaccioli

Discovering a surprising connection between faiths through a common prayer recently reminded me of the punchline to an old joke: 

A Lutheran castaway is showing his rescuers around the island where he has been stranded for years. Pointing to various structures he’s built from bamboo and other local materials, he comments, “That’s my house. This is my garage. And here is my church.” When asked about the identity of an abandoned hut hidden further in the jungle, he replies, “Oh, that’s the church I used to belong to.”

In my own experience, a Methodist and a Catholic got married and raised their children in the Lutheran church. I was the Methodist, the church I used to belong to. From what little I had witnessed of Catholic protocol, our new Lutheran worship seemed very similar in structure and content to my wife’s church services. Much of the Lutheran service is derivative of the Catholic experience, but with an openness and simplicity that had immediate appeal to both of us.

 

At family gatherings through the years, meals with my in-laws have always been preceded by a prayer of thanks. A bit of research shows that the prayer used in our family is a widely known bit of verbiage among the Catholic faithful:

 

“Bless us oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty. Through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

 

My father-in-law often spoke these words, much like a chant, in his deep Chicago Cop voice. I sat respectful and silent until I learned what he was saying, which was made more challenging by the speed at which the words were issued, a multisyllabic monotone followed by the sign of the cross. Amen.

 

Future generations in our family will enjoy the short video footage taken at our wedding, where father-of-the-bride approached the microphone to say a prayer before our meal. Not known for his communicative abilities, and most likely nervous in front of the room of 225 guests, Dad’s deep voice boomed out like a cannon:

 

              “BlessusoLordanthesethygiftswhichwerabouttoreceivefromthybountythroughJesusChristourLord”

 

Amen, and pass the Chicken Cordon Bleu.

 

Years later during our Lutheran Sunday service we reached the offertory prayer. Setting five had just come into rotation, so particular attention was being paid to a change in content. The lead-in to the old standard words was lovely and new. But there they were, spoken by the congregation, as comfortable as a favorite pair of jeans:

 

“God our provider, you have not fed us with bread alone, but with words of grace and life. Bless us and these your gifts, which we receive from your bounty, through Jesus Christ our Lord, Amen.”

 

Martin Luther took us on a ride down a bold, new path paved with grace and humility. But sprinkled in the Lutheran experience are some traditions that remind us of the church we used to belong to. They bind us as fellow believers on a journey to a common destination. If only we could overcome the differences that distance us and take the journey more closely aligned, together enjoying the gifts… “from thy bounty.” And that is no joke.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

Life Among the Published

I’ve written previously about clubs and organizations I’ve joined, most of them briefly or with humorous outcomes. Links to those attempts are listed at the end of this essay.

As a member of a local writing support group I was made aware of an upcoming meeting to be held in an historic building across from Millennium Park in Chicago. The monthly meeting of the Society of Midland Authors was open to guests for a five dollar fee. The scheduled panel discussion followed a cocktail hour, a social time for members to mingle with guests and each other. How hard would that be? Drink, talk and listen to a panel of experts without a huge time commitment. In fact, the journey to and from the event took as long as the time between drives.

I invited a great friend who is highly adept at both drinking and talking. As it turned out he likely had better credentials than most of the “authors” in the room, his career being deep within the marketing arm of a regional magazine publishing company. My own linkage consisted of my management position in a corporate ad agency that included oversight of graphic design and writing. So we weren’t entirely crashing the meeting, though it was certainly a lark on a rainy night with nothing better to do.

We spent far more on parking near the Michigan Avenue building than we did at the cash bar on the eighteenth floor where the meeting took place. Exiting the elevator with a swagger and confidence that we felt spoke to our publishing-hood and author-ness, we grabbed a drink and began to mix with the very diverse “Midland” crowd. It turned out that the amount we drank increased in direct proportion to the fun we had with people who became more interesting over the course of an hour.

We discovered a wide spectrum of genres represented among the attendees. Being published was no guarantee of being successful, famous or interesting. Although some of the authors were novelists, most had written on esoteric topics that would only sell to a very narrow niche of friends and family. I swear, one book was a compilation of fabrics, threads and yarns (not tales) through history. The book looked like Pat the Bunny, but not as cute or neatly contained.

Members, either of their own volition or instructed to seek out guests, began to probe us for potential as members.

            “What are you working on?” one tall, bearded author type asked me.

By this time, two Manhattans had me lubed enough to chat up Hemmingway at Sloppy Joe’s in Key West. I was ready to have some fun.

            “Oh, I’ve been working on something for two years,” I said.

            “Really! How fascinating,” he replied.

            “Yeah, I’m a slow reader,” I finished.

He wasn’t sure if he should laugh, perhaps due to an underdeveloped sense of humor, or possibly in an attempt to remain professional and polite, so I followed with,

            “I really prefer books on film.”

            “You’re narrating a book on tape?” he gave me an out.

            “No, I just find that a two hour film is much faster than I can read a book.”

The author member nodded, mouth slightly agape, and moved on to the next guest.

Soon it was time for the panel discussion. The topic was, of course, publishing because that’s what these people live for. On the panel were the Literary Critics for the Chicago Sun Times and the Chicago Tribune, and a woman who ran an independent literary review website called The Bookslut. Her name was Jessa. She had a nose for books, and actually had quite a nose, which may sound mean, but it was hard at first not to be distracted by the sight of the sundial protruding from her face until you started to listen to the words coming out of her mouth. She was by far the intellectual superior to the women working for the two major Chicago newspapers, and despite the rather crudely named website she managed, she had assembled an army of top notch literary writers to provide impressive reviews of all the latest books.

Questions put to the panel invariably centered on how to get published, recommendations for getting the attention of a publisher and marketing strategies subsequent to getting published. Self-publication was still viewed an act of desperation at the time of this meeting, an island of last resort.

The newspaper critics fielded questions to the best of their ability, but their jobs were not as publishers. They were critics and editors who had landed the two best jobs of their kind in the city. Eventually Jessa took a question, and in a moment of frustration said,

            “People need to stop worrying about getting published and spend their energy writing great literature.”

A hush came over the room, and then questions turned back to publishing.

We left the meeting and headed home, having had our fill of this particular society. Once again, I had peeked in through the open window of a group I had no interest in joining, but having satisfied my curiosity was still open to the next adventure.

 

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

The Nun in My Backyard

Today I have a guest author, my daughter Melissa. She wrote this short piece while in school in Lincolnshire, Illinois. The topic is quite unusual, and though we never saw a ghost, the unknown history of the person "buried" in our backyard haunted us and remained a mystery for the seventeen years we lived there.

My dad is really into gardening and making our yard look as impressively green as possible. One spring afternoon at least a decade ago, he was out in the foliage, weeding and raking away the victims of the winter when he found something out of the ordinary. A cross-shaped gravestone marked, “Sister Fabia Fisch February 28, 1892.”

After talking to our elderly neighbor, we found out that the story goes as follows: his sons came home with the marker years ago. They “found” it somewhere. My dad suspects that the stone may have been replaced because the cross style headstones often break at the base. It could have been anywhere when the neighbor boys found it, however, they brought it home, stuck it along the lot line in our back yard, and left it there. Now, my dad weeds around it and tries to keep it looking respectful.

For years, we wondered if there perhaps was a person buried in our back yard. My childish imagination came up with numerous stories explaining the mysterious stone, one of them even explaining that it was a beloved pet fish buried there (you have to expect a young girl to think that based off the name alone). For fun, my dad looked up her name online to see if he could find out anything about who she was. Within the past year, a site was established that has pictures from Maria Immaculata cemetery in Wilmette, Illinois.

Apparently there is a convent with a cemetery where they bury their nuns. There, a new headstone replaces the one lost years earlier.  He also found out that her sister was there as well. Her name was Sister Concordia Fisch. She was two years older, but lived to be 90, unlike Sister Fabia Fisch who only lived to be nineteen.

The Internet is an incredible tool, helping people everywhere find information on long lost nuns thought to be buried in their back yard.

Note from Vic: I have reached out several times to email addresses listed for the convent, but have yet to receive any information in return. I suspect they are very private people but there is a story here, mostly likely a sad one, and we'd love to know more about these early residents of Illinois. Their lives began shortly after the Civil War, and in the case of Sister Concordia, ended when I was five years old.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.

 

The Election

The day after the election, the U.S. Post Office suspended mail delivery until further notice.

Two days after the election, network television stations and cable outlets ceased operation. All newspapers other than the National Enquirer were shuttered by Executive Order. The heads of the CDC and FCC were arrested, imprisoned and replaced.

Before the polls closed the incumbent declared victory, demanded that he be called “Brilliant Leader” and invoked obscure remnants of the 1918 Sedition Law that allowed for imprisonment of anyone publishing false, scandalous, or malicious writing about him or his government. A celebration event began inside a fortified White House and the President claimed to have been elected by a landslide with the largest voter turnout in the history of the country. An attempt to assume the Presidency by the candidate who overwhelmingly won the popular vote was squelched by a coalition of dutiful Secret Service agents and fearful Generals. The official electoral vote ended with the hanging of the former Vice President. People were later recruited, herded into fleets of buses and driven to the National Mall for the largest inauguration ever held. 

Within two weeks martial law was declared by Brilliant Leader to quell protests, violence and unrest subsequent to his election. All branches of the U.S. Military, including the Space Force, were engaged to imprison as alien combatants any radical liberal, pacifist, socialist or anarchist as deemed necessary by the acting Attorney General, who was appointed Prime Minister. Convoys of loyal supporters blocked key arterial roadways and supply routes for materials necessary for healthcare workers in an exploding but largely ignored pandemic. Voting records were compiled and became the basis of arrests and internment at the state level.

Many within the population withdrew cash from banks, resulting in a shutdown of the financial system. Purchases by credit card were no longer accepted. Shelves at grocery stores emptied. Many stores, boarded up before the election, were torched as rioting and looting ensued. A handful of giant tech companies were declared enemies of the state by Executive Order and were nationalized. Amazon was shut down. The quickest thinkers among us packed our most basic necessities and took to the roads heading for Mexico and Canada only to find borders closed to Americans. All international airlines were overbooked with one-way tickets. And then a series of Executive Orders were issued that established an airline ground-stop, armed checkpoints and detention centers at state borders and the elimination of states themselves. A massive infrastructure project began, building massive walls between the six newly designated national regions, or protectorates, insular areas in which loyal and obedient political hierarchies were established to govern without representation.

It became fashionable to lower the stars and stripes and loft what had been campaign merchandise, a blue, white and red flag that proudly displayed Brilliant Leader’s name, often alongside that of Jesus in smaller, less conspicuous lettering. The states were no longer United. America the Great became the Country’s new official designation. Global leaders reacted with horror and a complete inability to respond with other than carefully crafted statements. Six massive Russian Embassies were constructed, one each in the protectorates. A new national anthem with a strong bass beat and a blazing lead guitar melody was written upon request of Brilliant Leader by Gene Simmons, Ted Nugent and Kid Rock who were subsequently awarded the Leader’s medal of honor. A statue of the late Rush Limbaugh was erected on the National Mall. All references to Barack Obama, Joe Biden and Ruth Bader Ginsburg were ordered stricken from books, electronic media and historical records. Pardons were granted to all indicted or imprisoned associates of the President, himself included.

The Supreme Court was moved into the Executive Branch of the new government and reduced to five justices. The House of Representatives was eliminated and the Senate expanded to 120 seats, also within the Executive Branch. The Presidency became a lifetime appointment, effective immediately.

We searched the radio and television for news during the dark and uncertain period following the election. Numerous regional attempts were made to broadcast over digital airwaves but were quickly shut down. Channel One became the official national news network, or NNN, with frequent folksy cocktail hours hosted by Brilliant Leader, specially selected members of his immediate family, and vocal loyal supporters. Fashion and Design time with the First Lady became a popular segment.

A national health care system finally became a reality, though workers within the system of clinics and hospitals were essentially forced labor, and most surgeries and treatments were outlawed. Abortion became illegal, but so did coronary bypass surgery, appendectomies, amputations and treatment by any kind of medication. Brilliant Leader wanted a population comprised of only the healthiest and least expensive followers. Nursing homes were shut down. The residents were quietly euthanized or sent home to live with willing family members. The sick and aged were declared "losers" by Brilliant Leader.

We nervously watched soldiers and dark green military vehicles parade and conduct exercises in our streets. Homes were occupied as needed. The dreaded pounding on the front door often resulted in public executions by firing squad, often at night. It became difficult to sleep. Backhoes remained in vacant lots for the quick digging of mass graves. Compliance was rewarded with life. Resistance, even hesitation meant death.

Leader’s Day, the new national holiday on June 14^th was a mandatory celebration featuring military parades, concerts, Air Force flyovers and food prepared by the citizenry for the armed forces as a mandatory show of appreciation. It was also one of several days throughout the year when massive gates between the six national regions were opened for twenty-four hours to allow visiting between isolated family members. It was promoted as a demonstration of Brilliant Leader's immense kindness. Failure to return within the designated period was considered a capital offense. Stampedes at the wall before and after the opening were large, chaotic and deadly. It was best not to attempt a crossing.

Snow began to fall during the first winter of our national perdition. Our sons and daughters, brothers and sisters turned their guns on one another. Christmas found quiet gatherings of faithful in mostly abandoned churches. Religion was neither encouraged nor prevented but a now famous photo of Brilliant Leader holding the Bible aloft in front of St. John's Church was required in all places of worship. The giving of gifts was difficult in the absence of places to shop, and the new national currency inflated wildly, devaluing constantly. Brilliant Leader’s face smiled from the single printed denomination and one minted gold coin. Alterations began on Mount Rushmore.

We huddled together, peered out at the street from behind perpetually closed blinds and faithfully watched NNN for news from Brilliant Leader. He promised a new reality show called White House Apprentice that he was certain would get the highest ratings in the history of television. We ate what we could find, slept cautiously and answered our door quickly and pleasantly. America was made great again. America the Great. Long life and happiness to Brilliant Leader.

😎

If you like fiction and you're in the mood for over 50 short stories, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.

Or if you'd prefer seventy non-fiction stories inspired by a town in Illinois, please consider buying Park Ridge Memories also on Amazon. Click on the image below.