THE GREAT FLOOD OF 54’

In 1953, my family lived in a house on the west side of Chicago. My grandmother owned the building. My Uncle Johnny and his wife lived with her on the first floor. My Aunt Frances and her family lived on the top floor, and my family lived in an adorable, English basement apartment. All three families lived there for about a year before I made my grand entrance into the world in June of 1954.

From what I have heard, this house was in reasonably good shape, and everyone seemed to be happy living in it. There was just one slight problem; the basement would feel dank with the air heavily laden with moisture whenever it rained. There was no visible water damage; it was more of an annoyance than anything else. My parents knew this wasn’t going to be our permanent home, so this minor irritation was tolerated. Then it happened.

It was a bright and sunny day in mid-September. My brother and sister were in school, and dad was at work, so mom decided to take me for a stroll in my baby carriage. Once I had been safely deposited in my carriage, mom collected her keys, purse, and a light-weight blanket for me. Just as she picked up the coverlet, she heard a clap of thunder and saw the flash of lightning through the living room window. Quickly, mom ran from room-to-room, checking and rechecking all the windows to make sure they were closed tight. Meanwhile, I had drifted off to sleep…that is until the roar of the thunder wakened me with a jolt, and I started crying.

Our House in 1954

As if out of nowhere, the sky opened up and the rain came down in sheets. Water suddenly began streaming down the basement steps and seeped beneath our front door and up through the drainage system built into the floor. The sudden onslaught of water was too much for the sump pump, not to mention my mother. Fortunately, Uncle Johnny was home. The water brigade, Mom, Johnny, and now Aunt Frances each grabbed a bucket and tried to bail as much of the water out as possible, but it was coming down too fast. Within a few minutes, we were already up to about six inches of standing water in our apartment. In the meantime, my mother realized I was no longer crying, which seemed odd given the amount of chaos all around me, and so she went checking. There I was in my baby carriage, sound asleep. It appears that with all the water rushing in, my carriage began floating sort of like a houseboat not tied to the pier. The gentle motion had rocked me back to sleep. It was time for all precious cargo, i.e., me, to be evacuated. Thankfully, Uncle Johnny was able to pick up the carriage with me in it. He carried both the pram and, more importantly, me out of the basement...delivering both safely upstairs to my grandmother.

50s Style Baby Carriage

The rain stopped almost as quickly as it started. Unfortunately, not fast enough to prevent the damage it left behind. When all was said and done…there was about a foot of murky water in our apartment. It would take several weeks to completely dry out everything… assess all the damage and clean up the mess. The flooding had caused water damage to some of the furniture and draperies and of course, the carpet was ruined. All of our belongings that could be salvaged were up on blocks and strategically placed in specific locations that had remained dry.

During this time, mom, dad, and I stayed upstairs with my grandmother, Uncle Johnny, and his wife, Olga. While my brother and sister stayed on the top floor with Aunt Frances and her family, these would be our living arrangements for the next few weeks. My baby carriage survived unscathed thanks to my uncle’s quick thinking and would serve as my bed during that time. Everyone else slept on sofas or shared beds.

Most importantly, no one was injured, and our spirits were left intact, given our new temporary, if not to mention, crowded lodgings. With no faith that another flood wasn’t imminent, we knew it was time to leave that cute little English basement apartment. We only lived in that house for a few more months while my parents looked for our new home. My grandmother never really trusted that there would be no repeat performance. so, once the damage to the basement was repaired, she sold the house and bought a new one a few miles away. Grandma, Johnny, Frances, and their respective families moved in in 1955.

While I was there for all the drama at 3-months old, I only have second-hand knowledge about any of it. I do remember first-hand the downhearted expression that seemed to overtake my mother’s face whenever she spoke about that day. I don’t know if it was the devastation to our house itself that promoted the sadness or if it was the loss and damage of some prized possessions. Whatever the case, that day in September will go down in my personal history as the great flood of 54’.

LIZZIE WE HARDLY KNEW YA...

My Great-Aunt, Elizabeth Lufrano, was the youngest daughter of Michael and Saveria Lufrano. She had just turned 20-years-old on March 25, 1918. She was born and raised in Chicago, Illinois. Young and pretty, Elizabeth had her whole life ahead of her, that is, until October 19, 1918. From that moment on, whenever anyone spoke about her, she was referred to as "poor Lizzie."

Spanish Influenza. The thought of another pandemic of this magnitude is too horrific to contemplate, and yet, it almost seems imminent. The story of Spanish Flu hits home for my family. The same applies to many families across the country and the world.

The 1918 Influenza pandemic [i]  or the Spanish Flu, as it is more commonly known, affected 500,000,000 people around the world. The death toll is estimated at 50,000,000 but could be as high as 100,000,000, making it one of the deadliest epidemics in history. [1]

During the epidemic, Chicago reported more than 8,500 lives lost to the disease in just eight weeks. The virus popped up in pockets around the country in the spring of that year. It disappeared almost as quickly. The summer of 1918 was relatively disease-free. Spanish Influenza, did, however, gain a foothold in Europe and began to spread across the continent. Over one million American soldiers were sent to Europe to fight in WWI. In late August, when the infected soldiers and sailors returned from Europe to military bases all over the country, the epidemic swept the nation.

While not the first stop in the U.S., the Great Lakes Naval Training Station, just 30 miles north of the city, was the first stop for the epidemic in Chicago. Beginning on September 11, 1918, the first cases were being reported. Within a week, there were over 2,600 men in the hospital. Liberty was canceled for the men at the station on September 19, to contain the outbreak, but it was already too late. According to newspaper reports, the week ending September 28, saw 598 new cases of Spanish Influenza in Chicago and 176 deaths. The following week, over 6,000 new cases were reported and more than 600 deaths. By the end of the third week, ending October 14, the number of new cases had jumped to 11,239, with over 1,400 deaths. October 17, 1918, became known as Black Thursday in Chicago when 381 people died, and nearly 1,200 more contracted the illness in a single 24-hour period. [2]  The number of deaths was occurring faster than could be accommodated. The city ran out of hearses, and so passenger trolleys, draped in black, were used instead to collect the bodies. Precautions taken against the spread of the disease were primitive at best and mostly ineffective. Public funerals in Chicago were banned altogether, and private funerals were limited to 10 people -- including the undertaker. Public places, such as bars, dance halls, and movie theaters, were closed. Churches and schools remained open. Public spitting was cause for arrest. In the hopes of reducing rush-hour crowds on public transportation, local businesses were asked to stagger their working days.[2]

A Chicago man, Peter Marrazo, [3], was driven insane by the Flu. He barricaded his family in their apartment, and slit the throats of his wife and four children, telling police, "I'll cure them my own way!" [2] 

When it was over, there were approximately 300,000 people affected by the Spanish Influenza in Illinois. The last few reported cases of the disease occurred in the first couple of months of 1920. The epidemic ended not because any cure had been found, but because the virus mutated again. The deadly Spanish Influenza strain ceased to exist (sort of.)'  [2]   

 

Lizzie & Friends - ca 1917

Lizzie & Her  Niece, Mary - 1917

There isn't much information known about where or how Great-Aunt Lizzie contracted the disease. What is known is that she became ill on October 10, 1918, and died on October 19, 1918, at 1:00 PM. Listed as her primary cause of death is meningitis, which lasted for three days. The underlying cause…influenza. Lizzie was buried two days later on October 22 at Mount Carmel Cemetery. Since public funerals were banned, it’s assumed Lizzie had a private funeral, although there is no one left to ask. The address listed on her death certificate shows, 927 Cypress. I've never heard mention of that address, the name of the street has been changed, and the building is no longer there. Was that her home address, or an isolation center where she was placed after she contracted the disease? Again, there's no one left to ask. It’s heartbreaking to think that more is known about Lizzie’s horrible death than her life. What was her favorite color or book? What did she do for fun? Who was her best friend? Did she have a boyfriend? So many questions that will never have answers. As I work on my family tree, I will continue to search for any tidbits of information that may become available on Lizzie. For now, Elizabeth Lufrano may be gone, but definitely not forgotten.

Mar. 25, 1898 - Oct. 19, 1918

RESOURCES

---

[i]  americanexperience/films/influenza

¹ https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish_flu

²Chicago and the Influenza Epidemic of 1918 Gapers Block .... http://www.gapersblock.com/airbags/archives/chicago_and_the_influenza_epidemic_of_1918/

³ https://chroniclingamerica.loc.gov/lccn/sn85042243/1918-10-22/ed-1/seq-1/

THE TRUE DEFINITION OF A GENTLEMAN...

ca 1924 or 1925

Someone once described my father as the true definition of a gentleman. It was not because of his social position, status, or education, but because of his character. He was a good man of even temper that never spoke ill of anyone. He was always willing to help another human being when others would just turn and walk away.  

His name was Rocco Poppa. He was known as Rocky to most everyone that knew him, though my mother would call him Rock on occasion. The nickname suited, as he was definitely the rock of our family, but to me, he will always be known as dad. He was born on March 22, 1916, in Bridgeport, Connecticut. The fourth out of the eight children (2 of which would die in infancy) of Isidoro and Theresa Poppa, dad was only seven-years-old when his father died. I asked my dad once, what grandpa died from, and he told me, mustard gas. At the time I posed the question, I did not know much about WWI or my family history. It seemed to make sense. There was fighting throughout Italy, and mustard gas was a poisonous gas used in chemical warfare during the First World War. Many years later, I began work on my family tree, which included studying many of the events surrounding the lives of some of my ancestors. I discovered that my grandfather was already in the United States by the time WWI broke out in Italy. 

My grandfather's cause of death was actually pulmonary Tuberculosis. I believe… though I haven't been able to substantiate it… that he contracted the disease aboard the ship during one of his crossings over the years. Once I found out the truth, I needed to understand how or why my father would think that his dad died from mustard gas?

Pulmonary Tuberculosis was and is a highly contagious infection that mainly affects the lungs. It's transmitted through the air by coughing, sneezing, spitting, speaking or even singing. It can last for months or years and can kill you.[1] Because of the nature of this dreaded illness, I believe that the children were told that their father suffered the effects of mustard gas poisoning to prevent panic and exclusion throughout the neighborhood. They had no reason to doubt that story.

Isidoro, Theresa, and the children moved back and forth between Bridgeport and Chicago throughout their marriage. The Poppa's all lived in Bridgeport, and the DiFoggio's (my grandmother's family) lived in Chicago. After my grandfather's death at the age of 31, my grandmother raised six children alone. So, she and the children permanently settled in Chicago to be nearer to her family. They would, however, continue to travel back and forth to Connecticut as time and money permitted. It could not have been easy for her, given that her eldest son was only 12, and her youngest was a little over 1-year-old. Without much money and many mouths to feed, the older children got jobs to help out.  

Seven-year-old Rocky and 5-year-old Lenny got jobs working on the back of their Aunt Grace's husbands' fruit and vegetable truck. Working on the back of that truck was not a pleasant experience for either of the boys and would soon prove to be unpleasant for their uncle as well. Uncle Carlo, as he was known, was a jobber in the local grocery business in Chicago. He would deliver produce and dried sausages (i.e., pepperoni) to area grocery stores. The days were long, and there was no heat or air conditioning in that truck. For their efforts, Rocky and Lenny were each paid a penny apiece for a week's work. From the story told by both my father and Uncle Lenny, Carlo would stop at home every day for a hot lunch and leave the boys on the back of the truck…regardless of the weather… each with a piece of Italian bread to eat, and that's all. After a week or two of this, the boys had had enough bread. Dad, as the older of the two, led the revolt. He grabbed a pepperoni link and took a bite out of it and spit it out. He handed another pepperoni to his brother to do the same thing. Six sausages later, they then started in on the tomatoes and peppers. When Carlo came back from his lunch, he was furious. He paid the boys for the week and never let them back on his truck again.

Engagement Photo -1943

As time moved on, paychecks somewhat improved, but it was the Depression, however, and so you took any job that you could get and were glad to have it. Dad was in school in the early 30s, and so any work that was available to him was that of a day laborer.[2]

  

There wasn't a whole lot of time or money for dating as we know it today. Dad, now in his 20s, had a healthy interest in girls, and with his movie-star good looks, …girls were definitely, interested in dad. Fortunately for me, there was one girl in particular that dad was genuinely enamored … my mother.   

Marilyn DeLio was the girl next door or rather…across the street and down the block. She was best friends with my dad's cousin, Lena. Since Lena lived in the same building as my dad, he would see mom now and then when she would get together with his cousin. As dad would say, she was a "real looker." Dark hair, hazel green eyes, petite, and beautiful both inside and out.   

My parents knew each other from the time they were children, but their romantic interests while growing up lay elsewhere.

   

Suddenly, it was the 1940s. WWII and the bombing of Pearl Harbor had just happened. Military service was inevitable. His romance with my mother had just begun with some minor flirtations when dad was called up in the draft. He asked if he could write to her while he was away, and of course, mom said yes. Dad would serve stateside for the next twenty months at Camp Campbell, Kentucky. My parents would keep in touch through cards, letters, telegrams, and the occasional army leave. By the end of August 1943, dad was discharged from the military.  After the army, Dad would become a baker by trade and a darn good one, too. 

1942

July 2, 1944

On July 2, 1944, my parents married at St. Charles Borromeo Church in Chicago. Over the next 14 years, they would have four children. The plan was that dad would retire in 1982 at the age of 66 from Gonnella Bakeries. He and mom were going to do all the things that had been put on hold over the years. But it wasn’t meant to be. 

One of the two darkest days in my father's adult life occurred on December 8, 1981, the day my mother died. The second one happened on June 4, 1987, the day my brother, Patrick, died in a construction accident. I had never seen my father cry before those two occasions, and I don't think I will ever forget it.   

Four years after my brother's death, dad suffered a stroke. He was able to regain some ability to speak and walk over time, so in that regard, he maintained some of the resiliency, which I always knew him to possess. He lived with me until a second stroke ended his life on April 1, 1999. Some may say that I took care of him, but I think in many ways, we took care of each other.

Dad was, without a doubt, one of the kindest, gentlest, and sincerest men I have ever known, he was the first love of my life. He taught me many things over the years that still hold true today. Dad taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bicycle, put out a grease fire in the stove, and how to bake Italian bread to keep it soft on the inside and crusty on the outside. He also taught me what it means to be genuinely kind, not just by words, but through one's actions. I think of him often and miss him always. I love you, Dad. Rest in Peace.

Mar 22, 1916 - Apr 1, 1999

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tuberculosis

[2] https://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/day laborer

FAVORITE FAMILY RECIPES… A POEM FOR THE SENSES

What does the word popular mean? Is it something familiar, every day, ordinary, or readily accepted by everyone {i.e., popular opinion or a name]? Yes, it is. Is it a person that is well-liked? Yes, it is. The word is often used as part of specific phrases: 'back by popular demand,' 'contrary to popular opinion or belief.'  There are magazine titles that use the word to catch the eye of potential subscribers (think "Popular Mechanics” or “Popular Woodworking”). Even our presidential election has a 'popular vote' versus that of an 'electoral vote.' Whatever the word means to you, the implication behind it invokes something positive, and what's more positive or popular…than food?!

I have never met a person that did not love or at least enjoy Italian food… well, I did once, but we don't speak anymore. It is one of the most popular cuisines in the world and when asked…it is often touted as a favorite amongst people of all ages and ethnicities. The most obvious reason is that it's delicious. It's beautiful to look at, smells divine, and it's delicious... [did I already say that? Well, it bears repeating].

Italian cooking is a poem for the senses. It is not just pizza or spaghetti, although that's pretty tasty. It's steeped in family history. Recipes handed down with pride from grandmothers and mothers to their daughters. It's not unusual to look further back than a couple of generations: to learn why we cook in a certain way and why we eat certain things.^[1] Whole dialogs have been known to center around a particular recipe. Most of which are based on oral conversations with our elders, and therefore have a limited lifespan. Consider yourself fortunate if you find the recipe written down anywhere, like the blank pages inside a cookbook that you rarely open. That's where I found my family’s homemade ravioli recipe. It was actually more of a list of ingredients with the notation "to taste" written next to each one.

Cuisine…even the word sounds delicious. It's a style of cooking characterized by distinctive ingredients, techniques, and dishes. It's usually associated with a specific culture or geographic region. It can be as much a part of an individual's history as any known ancestor.  

Italian cuisine has a history as rich, colorful, and fascinating as the most amazing of recipes. It's no secret that the Roman Empire loved to feast, and their banquets were often representative of the various lands that it conquered. Exotic spices and ingredients from the Middle East, fish from the Mediterranean, and grains from North Africa. Of course, these were meals prepared for high society. The majority of the population's diet consisted of mainly three things and products made from them:  the vine, the olive, and cereal grains. The Mediterranean Diet is a popular trend in eating today and is based upon this diet. It is also considered and recommended as one of the healthiest diets around.  Wine, olive oil, and bread. Add a few healthy helpings of vegetables, legumes, and cheese, and this is what the people of Rome would eat daily.

Spices and dried fruit became a popular blend in the Middle Ages and are often still found in Sicilian dishes. Dried pasta is generally characterized as an Italian thing but was brought to Sicily by the Arabs. They appreciated the fact that it was easy to carry and preserve on long sea voyages. From the shores of Sicily, dried pasta made its way to Naples and Genoa, as well as France and Spain. So, contrary to what we hear about the origins of pasta, it wasn't Marco Polo that brought noodles to the Italian shores. ^[2]
   
Three of the most popular homemade dishes in my family center around pasta. Lasagna, ravioli, and my personal favorite… Zuppa di Pollo (chicken soup). There's nothing so comforting as a big, steaming bowl of this simple chicken broth and orzo pasta, sprinkled with freshly grated parmesan cheese, and topped with a sprig of fresh parsley or dried parsley flakes. Serve it with a piece of hot Italian bread dipped in olive oil and grated cheese or slathered in butter. Well, maybe go easy on the butter or the slathering, and you will have a cure for whatever is ailing you. 

It cannot be denied that Italian cuisine (or as it is referred to in Italy… "food") offers some of the most popular and tasty dishes imaginable. From bruschetta, pizza, pesto, pasta alla carbonara, and cannelloni to espresso, cappuccino, cannoli, and tiramisu… the popularity of these fantastic dishes is hard to beat. So, what are you waiting for?  Mangiamo! (Let's eat!)

[3] Pasta Shapes

RESOURCES:

[1] The History of Italian Cuisine I - Life in Italy. https://www.lifeinitaly.com/history-of-food/the-history-of-italian-cuisine-i

[2] The History of Italian Cuisine I - Life in Italy. https://www.lifeinitaly.com/history-of-food/the-history-of-italian-cuisine-i

[3] Pasta Shapes.  https://www.huffpost.com/entry/pasta-shapes-deathmatch_n_3416286?guccounter=1

THAT DOGGONE DOG NEXT DOOR...

I like my condo. I'm comfortable in it, and the building and grounds are well-maintained. It's also a relatively quiet building. "Quiet," however, is a relative term. By "relative," I'm referring to my neighbor's relatives, along with the little 4-legged monster staying with her.

For a little background on this story, let me start out by saying that my neighbor is actually very sweet. She’s 90-years-old and technically lives alone. That was not always the case. Her daughter is the actual owner of her condo, and was living there when I first bought my unit. When the daughter got married about 15 years ago, her new husband moved in too. As the saying goes…

“First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes a baby in a baby carriage.”

The baby was a screamer. He had a non-stop, ear-piercing scream that was only overshadowed by his non-stop, running back and forth across hardwood floors once he learned how to walk. Eventually the daughter, son-in-law, and by then, the five-year-old holy terror of a grandson moved out. Peace had come at long last…unfortunately, it wouldn’t last long enough.

Last year was a particularly challenging one for my neighbor, and subsequently, me. Several incidents occurred throughout the year, which would make a weaker person weep. I won’t go into too many of the details because this post would end up being longer than Tolstoy’s War and Peace. Let’s just say that sometime around the end of summer, my neighbor’s daughter decided it was time to renovate, as a result of some of these challenges. All of the flooring, cabinetry, bathroom fixtures…the whole shebang. Unfortunately, none of the work was done by professionals, and so, it was and is taking forever. The past 6-months have been like living in a warzone, and it’s not over yet. The noise level is off the charts, but to make matters worse…

Let me introduce you to Cujo. Before you ask…no, that’s not his real name, and no, he does not turn into an enormous, rabid dog monster... he just acts like one. This Cujo… is a small dog… a Yorkshire Terrier without the fancy haircut. He’s actually very cute but seems to suffer from a sort of short dog complex (if there is such a thing). He tries to exert his authority by growling and barking, as loud as his little lungs will allow... all day long!! I fully expect to hear him howling at the moon one of these nights. 

Cujo technically belongs to my neighbor’s holy terror of a grandson, who is now about 12 or 13-years-old. The dog has been staying with my neighbor for the past several months during all of the construction. It makes little to no sense to me as to why you would have a small, uncontrollable animal running around the house while you’re trying to rehab it… but I digress. My fear is Cujo is moving in permanently. 😩

Since my neighbor is up in years with limited mobility, her grandson comes over every day to walk the dog. He seems to be a good kid, but…he is a child and needs boundaries (and I need soundproofing in my ceiling). There is something that is sorely lacking in his upbringing. For example, the other day, my neighbor’s grandson was on his skateboard riding back and forth… popping wheelies… on the newly installed hardwood floors, right above my head. Skateboarding in the living room. Chasing the dog from room-to-room. Slamming the backdoor on each trip in and out of the building. Running up and down the stairs. Pounding his feet onto each wooden tread, like a double exclamation point at the end of a sentence. Just a few of the sound effects, I've enjoyed over recent months. I spoke to the grandson about the skateboarding in the house, and also asked that he try to tread a little lighter on the backstairs and go easy on the door slamming, but he is a kid, and as they say, kids will be kids. Of course, it is also said that children learn by example. Just remember...if never disciplined when these examples go awry…one day you may find them building a fire pit in the middle of your hardwood floors…it’s something to think about. As for Cujo, one or two semesters at a doggy charm school or better still…reform school, (take your pick) wouldn’t hurt him a bit.

Last Saturday afternoon, I was in the basement doing laundry. There was an unmistakable odor of gas in the air. I knocked on my neighbor’s backdoor. She didn’t answer right away, and I was concerned that she might have been overcome by the smell, so I knocked harder. This time, she opened the door. She seemed a little frazzled and slightly annoyed. I told her I smelled gas and wanted to make sure she was alright, and maybe she should check her stove. She looked at me like she thought I was crazy and had no idea why I would assume the smell was coming from her unit (hmm…maybe because it's happened before? 🤔).

Meanwhile, Cujo came flying out of nowhere…and charged the enemy line, i.e., me. He jumped up and tried to bite me. Luckily, he only tore a hole in the knee of my jeans and not my actual kneecap. I still don’t know if I was more shocked by the fact that this little mutt was able to jump that high… or that he tried to bite me. In either case, the dog had to be restrained because he was still operating in attack mode, even after I swatted him across the nose.

Once things calmed down, my neighbor took me into her kitchen so that I could see for myself that her stove was just fine. As it turned out… the gaseous odor that was permeating the hallways of the building was actually some kind of culinary delight that she was whipping up on her stovetop. Based on the smell alone… I think she should have ordered a pizza.

As for the star of this post… not much has changed. Cujo still growls and barks at every sound he hears and tries to lunge at anyone that comes within ten feet of him. On our few run-ins, and after glowering at each other suspiciously, Cujo and I have reached an understanding. I don’t like him, and well… he doesn’t like anybody.

SOURCES:

The Yorkie sketches appearing in this post are based on photographs. The sources of the photos are listed below:

https://yorkiemag.com/parti-yorkies/

https://w-dog.pw/wallpaper/yorkshire-terrier-new-york-dog-running-grass-lawn/id/262385/

A TOUGH ACT TO FOLLOW...

  

1917

She was known as Mary to her parents, brothers, and sisters; she was Marilyn to my dad and mom (or ma) to her children. Maria Saveria DeLio was born on June 10, 1917. She was christened after her mother, Maria (known as Mary) and her grandmother, Saveria. I never found out how the name 'Marilyn' came about... (I suspect that 'Mary' wasn't glamorous enough, but that's just a guess.). If truth be told, mom was also not terribly fond of her middle name. When she turned eleven... she began using her Confirmation name, Gertrude. One day, I asked her why she chose to use Gertrude instead of Saveria. Her response was, "There was a girl in my class at school named Gertrude. She was very smart, and I admired her;" exactly what one might expect from an 11-year-old girl, which was her age at the time she made that decision.

About 1928

My mother grew up in the Tri-Taylor Street neighborhood in Chicago, Illinois. She and my father lived across the street from each other on DeKalb Street. Mom was best friends with Dad's cousin, Lena, who also happened to live in the same building as my dad. I don't think it was love at first sight between my parents, but they were friends. During this time, my mother attended St. Charles Borromeo Elementary School in the 20s and William McKinley High School in the 30s. 

Maybe she wasn't the best student in school (although I don't know that as a fact), but what I do know is Mom was much smarter than she ever gave herself credit for being. She was resilient and would always push forward in her studies until she figured out the correct answer. This mindset is something that she lived in her everyday life and which she also instilled in her children.

1935 - Mom as the first sailor on the left.

1935

Once out of school, she worked as a milliner, making and selling ladies' hats. At the outbreak of WWII, she got a job in the print shop at Wieboldt's, a major department store in downtown Chicago, at that time. She remained there for several years.

There were relationships, some more serious than others over the years, that had to run their course. But once the way was cleared and through my dad's cousin, Lena…the childhood friends reconnected after years of going their separate ways. Dad was going off to the army and asked my mother if he could write to her. She said yes, and they corresponded through the U.S. mail for the next two years, seeing each other whenever he was able to get military leave. It only took 20+ years…WWII and the post office for them to realize that they loved each other. They were married within a year of Dad's army discharge on July 2, 1944, at St. Charles Borromeo Church.

               

                  Engagement Photo

Wedding Day - July 2, 1944

As a couple, my parents were a lot like Switzerland. If someone needed to talk, they were willing to listen. They would, however, avoid getting caught up in the minutia of squabbles amongst relatives or friends, unless of course, there was a direct impact on our nuclear family. Then and only then would they get involved, reviewing both sides of an issue before rendering any opinion.

First Anniversary

Mom was a kind, generous, and compassionate woman, filled with integrity. She wasn't afraid to share her opinions or speak her truth. Still, both were tempered with her innate ability to get her point across without arrogance. She never went out of her way to hurt someone's feelings or dazzle them with a know-it-all attitude.

My mother's pride in her children was evident. She loved us unconditionally, but was not blind to our shortcomings and consistently provided us with the unvarnished truth, whether we asked for it or not. We likely would have preferred a light coating of varnish now and then. But in retrospect, her method was the best way.

She showed her love for her family and friends in hundreds of ways throughout her everyday actions from the time she was a young girl until she took her last breath. My mother knew when to follow her head and when to follow her heart. She knew who she was as a person and had enough self-respect for herself and what she believed in, not to let another woman's cattiness get under her skin. Something that I'm still working on after all these years. 

Marilyn G. Pope nee DeLio… one of the strongest women I have ever known left this world on December 8, 1981, much too soon. She didn't say, "I love you" very often, but then… neither do I. Maybe because she didn't say it a lot…I knew how deeply she felt and meant those words when she did say them.

She once said to me, "Some people may lie to you or only tell you what they think you want to hear. I want what's best for you and will always tell you the truth because you're my child, and I love you." And I love you too, Mom. Rest in Peace. 

The Last Family Photo With Mom - 1980