Once Upon A Time...

...there was a little girl who lived in a very big city. In fact, it was one of the biggest cities there ever was in the whole world. But, she didn't think of it as big; it was simply home. Every now and then her mother took her and her brother and sister into the "downtown" of the big city. She didn't know why it was called "downtown," but it meant riding on a train up in the air - a train her mother called an "L"," and looking into pretty store windows, and having lunch at a restaurant called Jacques. They always dressed up to go "downtown," and that made it special too. Downtown was like a tall forest, but the trees were made of brick and concrete and steel, and stood straight and tight like broad-shouldered giants standing arm-in-arm. The little girl's name was Lindy, and she loved going into the brick forest. She wasn't at all afraid, even though her mother insisted they all hold hands so no one would get lost, and even though some people downtown talked to themselves right out loud.

Lindy wasn't the little girl's real name; but, it was the name her father gave her and the only name he ever called her. He told her about a man who flew across the Atlantic Ocean all by himself and made it safely to the other side. His name was Charles Lindbergh, and although Lindy's father didn't care much for the pilot's political ideas (which her father declared were "rusty") he liked a song that was written about Charles Lindbergh. Lindy's father loved to cross his right leg over his left, and give Lindy a ride on his foot while he sang, "Lucky Lindy up in the sky, Lucky Lindy flying so high." And - whoosh - up he'd ride Lindy and then - boom - down she would go. This game made them both happy. Although Lindy's father didn't care much for Lindbergh, he did think he had "guts," and guts were very important to Lindy's father. But when he talked about Charles Lindbergh's guts, Lindy's mother would narrow her eyes and tighten up her mouth, and say something about using words that the children might repeat, and guts was not one of the words she wanted the children to repeat. Nevertheless, Lindy's father was determined to win the argument, and Charles Lindbergh had guts...so guts it was and guts it was going to be no matter what mother thought about it.

There was nothing in the little girl's life that caused her to fear anything, until the night she was awakened by the sound of someone talking very low and far away. It sounded like her father's voice, but her father's voice was big and deep. Deep like a well...like when she and her sister would stand on a wooden soda crate and yell down the almost empty rain barrel and the sound would come booming back at them. She got out of bed and carefully crept towards the living room and peered around the corner. The room was dark, except for a small lamp. Her father was sitting in his chair with both of his feet on the floor, his elbows on his knees, and his hands clasped in front of him. A cigarette with a long ash jiggled in his clenched fingers and an almost empty bottle of amber liquid stood sentinel on the floor. He was talking about a dog of long ago named Moochie, and about how a man in a car swerved to hit Moochie, about how her father chased the man as he drove away, how he ran for blocks down the city streets until he collapsed from exhaustion. Her father called the man bad names that Lindy knew would cause her mother's eyes to narrow and her lips to tighten. She looked to see if someone else was sitting in the darkness; but, her father was alone. She realized he was crying. Now she felt afraid. At the time she didn't realize that fathers cried. As she got older, she would learn that the good ones did.

A short time after she saw her father cry, Lindy began to have a nightmare. She was in a tunnel that looked like a subway station with gray walls, a gray rounded ceiling and a dark, wet pavement. Then she heard the "ba boomp ba boomp" sound, like the last echo of a train's retreating wheels, then a growl, and a hiss. And without turning around she tried to run, but her feet were lead. The dream came back again and again, and she became afraid to go to sleep. Then one night, while being chased by the unknown beast, she struggled to scream. She tried and she tried and finally let out a yelp that woke her up. Standing by her bed was her mother. "Had a bad dream, honey?" Her mother crawled into her bed and drew Lindy close and stroked her cheek. "Do you know what courage is, Lindy?" "Being brave?" the little girl responded. "Well, Courage and Bravery are sisters. Courage is a little older and wiser and lives up here," she said, tapping Lindy's forehead. Then she placed her hand where Lindy's heart beat and said, "Bravery lives here." Lindy looked over at the crib where her brother was fast asleep and asked, "Do they have a brother?" Mother's eyes followed Lindy's and she smiled knowingly. "Well, baby, their brother's name is Fearless." "And where does Fearless live?" With that, Lindy's mother tickled her feet until they both laughed. "He lives here where he can run, and jump and climb things he shouldn't."

"The next time you have the bad dream, I want you to use your courage and turn around. And then I want you to use your bravery and stare right back at the monster. And then Fearless can take over and chase the monster away! How does that sound?" It sounded like a pretty good idea. Lindy's mother turned out the light and sat on the floor next to the bed, and petted her hair. Her mother's perfume was Wind Song, and Lindy knew her mother was close because the familiar fragrance wrapped her up like a blanket. Eventually, the bad dream returned; but, Lindy was prepared with a plan - and it actually worked. The only glitch was Fearless. He ran backwards and out of the tunnel (so the monster might still be there.) But the nightmare was gone forever. When she told her father about defeating the monster with her Courage, Bravery and Fearlessness, Lindy's father was proud of her. "You got guts, kid," he said with a wink.

THINGS THAT GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT

I've been asked to select some titles for the next Slaves of Golconda book. At first I hadn't the ghost of an idea. I mean, it really was murder coming up with a theme. It was a devil of an assignment that haunted me. I think you now get the drift.

Autumn is here at last. The nights are growing cooler and soon leaves will turn their most brilliant hues - their last hurrah before...Death. Why do we love to be frightened? In what was my most recurrent nightmare, I was being chased by a frightful, demonic figure. As I tried to flee, my feet became leaden and I slogged forward knowing that right behind me breathed a beast. I was always just outside his reach. And then one night I discovered that I could run as fast as the wind with one...big...catch. I had to turn around and run backwards, thereby forcing myself to face the creature that roared and raged, ready to devour me. The nightmare never returned after that night. I had learned to face my fear, and by facing it I had defeated it. Perhaps that is why stories of mystery and suspense, of ghosties and ghoulies and monsters under the bed hold a certain goose-pimply charm for us. So, in honor of Halloween (my favorite holiday) I thought a little mystery, murder, mayhem or "things that go bump in the night" might be in order. Follow me....if...you...dare!

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THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD by Agatha Christie

First published in 1926, and considered to be one of Christie's most controversial mysteries, the Murder of Roger Ackroyd breaks all the rules of traditional mystery writing. A widow's suicide has stirred rumors of blackmail, and of a secret lover named Roger Ackroyd, who was found stabbed to death in his study. The case is so unconventional that not even renowned detective Hercule Poirot has a clue how to solve it. For many Agatha Christie fans, this was her masterpiece.

THE MALTESE FALCON by Dasheill Hammett

The Maltese Falcon is a detective novel - one of the best ever written. It is also a brilliant literary work, as well as a thriller, a love story, and a dark, dry comedy.

It involves a treasure worth killing for, Sam Spade - a private eye with his own solitary code of ethics, a perfumed grafter named Joel Cairo, a fat man named Gutman, and Brigid O'Shaughnessy, a beautiful and treacherous woman whose loyalties shift at the drop of a dime. These are the ingredients of Dashiell Hammet's coolly glittering gem of detective fiction, a novel that has haunted three generations of readers. (from Google books).

THE STRANGE CASE OF DR. JEKYLL AND MR. HYDE by Robert Lewis Stevenson

Published in 1886, this is one of the best known of Stevenson's novels. It concerns the way in which an individual is made up of contrary emotions and desires: some good and some evil. Through the curiousity of Utterson, a lawyer, we learn of the ugly and violent Mr. Hyde and his odd connection to the respectable Dr. Jekyll. A brutal murder is committed. The victim is one of Utterson's clients, and the murder weapon a cane which Utterson had given to Dr. Jeykill. And so, the lawyer becomes entangled in the strange world of the physician who has created a drug that separates the good in human nature from the evil - and the despicable Mr. Hyde.

THE WOMAN IN BLACK by Susan Hill

Set on the English moor, on an isolated cause-way, at a mansion in the bleak, flat wetlands - with no neighbors in sight, the story stars an up-and-coming young solicitor who sets out to settle the estate of Mrs. Drablow. Routine affiars quickly give way to a tumble of events and secrets more sinister than any nightmare.

Often compared to Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House, the book starts peacefully and builds to a frightening crescendo that, according to one reviewer on Amazon, "will haunt" you."

Are you game to take a sojourn (perhaps foolishly) into Eel Marsh House? What awaits you there? If you do, will you ever be the same? (I'm getting all spine-tingly just thinking about it.)

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Happy Halloween! Oh, I haven't learned how to link yet - but you can always Google.  *The blurbs and reviews are taken from various sources.

It Was A Dark And Stormy Night...

...which is how Snoopy perennially starts the novel he attempts to write from the roof of his doghouse.

Day One - Grad Writes A Novel:

I placed my laptop on the table in the breakfast room - the sunniest place in the house. It has a view that used to be quite lovely. That was back in the days when I had just learned to garden and threw myself into it with a frenzy. I planted and read and mulched. I deadheaded and weeded, misted and watered. Whatever I touched blossomed and thrived. Then something happened to my magic touch. The view is still green, but invasive vines seem to have choked out all the flowers, except for the Confederate Jasmine and Carolina Jessamine that have grown heavily over the arbor.

I cleaned the breakfast room windows at the beginning of the summer, except for one. A large, striped spider (a huge spider - the size of my palm) had built a magnificent web over that one and I didn't want to disturb it. My children have begged me to get rid of Flash Too (her name), but I'll have to wait until I have the time to catch her in a glass and transport her to the back of the yard (where she should have spun her web in the first place - like Flash One did several years before). One would think she could have picked a better piece of real estate - safety-wise. But I think she rather likes sunning herself.

Okay, so, hands on the keyboard. But, first I decided a pot of tea on the table would benefit the flow of thoughts (which I was certain would come fast and furious) and so off to the pantry. What kind of tea? There's Raspberry Lemon, Red Zinger, Earl Grey, Sleepytime (no, bad choice), English Breakfast. What's in that canister over in the corner? Oh, Apricot Tangerine. Just think I'll rearrange the middle shelf as long as I'm standing here. Why isn't all the tea in one place, the coffee in another, the canned goods arranged by type? The empty storage containers should be in the cabinet near the fridge, not in the pantry.

So, an hour later and I've forgotten that I wanted to brew a pot of tea. The pantry is in order. Back to the table, hands on keyboard.

Did I remember to pay the guy that cuts the lawn? The front yard looks truly awful and needs edging and mowing. I'm afraid my neighbors are talking about it. I'll just give him a call. Did I pay you? Will you come on Tuesday? In that case, should I tape the check to the door? No? Mail will do? I'll stop by the post office on my way to work on Tuesday. Thank you, thank you.

Let's see, I was in the middle of something. The laundry? The laundry!! I ran out of laundry detergent. Must run to the grocery store before I forget. They are having a sale on turkey breast, I think. So, let's see - turkey breast, stuffing mix, onions, chicken broth. We'll have Thanksgiving dinner in September! The leftovers will make great pita sandwiches during the week. Get pita bread, avocado, lettuce and tomatoes.

End of Day One of Grad Writes A Novel. At this pace, I should be published very soon.

The Girl Graduate: And So Adieu

As darkness fell on May 26, 1903, a large and happy crowd gathered at the pleasant little house on Main Street. Lively music drifted out into the cool, spring evening as revelers enjoyed an elaborate wedding supper in honor of John and Estella, just married at St. John's Church. And thus, Evelyn's parents were tendered as a newly wedded couple. They welcomed Evie, their second child, into the world on May 11, 1906.

She was a happy child and a good student. And, although she had a large circle of friends and was actively engaged in outside activities, she was, at heart, a quiet girl. I suspect The Girl Graduate: Her Own Book, was given to her for her 17th birthday, just months before senior year at WHS. In any event, she began her journal in June of 1923, starting with a "Hike To Homer," accompanied by Viola, and Dorthea and someone identified only as "M," during which she collected fern fronds and flower petals, which she later carefully pressed into her little book.

Painstakingly, she chronicled the small and large events of the next year: the wedding announcement of a sister, the marriage of a teacher, the victories and defeats of the basketball and football teams (with numerous photographs of Duffy cut from newspaper accounts of his athletic prowess), the parties, dances, and club events at school. In short, she documented the life of a teenage girl during that most special of years - the year of evolution from child to woman. How impossible it was to read her journal and not be hopeful for her - even fearful for her. And each time I took the book into my hands, I prayed that the promise of youth had been fulfilled in reality. But, unlike Viola, Evie was illusive and ephemeral, and I worried about her.

After crossing the stage to receive her diploma, Evelyn stepped over the threshold of the Winona Opera House into the night, and began her adult life. Although I struggled for several years to find some thread to follow, some clue that would cast me in the right direction, the mystery of what happened to her remained. Whereas Viola actively threw herself into the community following graduation, Evie seemed to have evaporated into memory. The obvious burden I had was to determine whether she had ever married thereby changing her last name. I had limited my search to the 12 years immediately following graduation, the typical marrying years, with no luck. But as I expanded the time line, I was rewarded. On August 17, 1942, the announcement of her marriage to Rex appeared in the Winona Republican-Herald. So, Evelyn had married late in life, and I had her married name.

I wondered about the man who finally wed Evie - where they met, how long they courted, and what he looked like. I assumed she met Rex in her thirties - perhaps at work- and I feared she may have married him only as a recourse from spinsterhood. But, I was wrong. As I was preparing to write about Evie, I took out the 1924 yearbook once again to look at her graduation picture. My eyes wandered down the page, and for the first time I noticed Rex - young, blond, sweet-faced Rex. They had known each other since high school; I wondered what had taken him so long to ask the question.

In July of 1942, Rex sold his interest in a successful implement store (which had doubled its volume in sales steadily since it was started in 1938), and he and Evie moved from Winona to Madison, Wisconsin. Soon afterwards, Rex joined the army and the couple was stationed at Fort Benning in Georgia. It was in Georgia that Evelyn gave birth to her only child, James Emil, in December of 1945. She was nearly 40 years old.

There are no other facts of Evie's life that I can share with you, other than that there is a grave site at St. Mary's Cemetery in Winona with the names of three people inscribed: Rex 1908-1981, followed by James 1945-1991, and finally Evelyn 1906-1993. The dates tell some of the story. They explain why there was no one left to treasure The Girl Graduate, and why it found its way into that little antique store, and ultimately into my hands. It speaks of a mother who outlived her only child, the heartache which must have followed, and - if you believe - a joyous reunion at last. At least, that is what is settled in my own mind.

I choose to believe she enjoyed a full and happy life with Rex, that she found fulfillment in a life quietly lived, and that finding her book was not mere chance. I believe it was a gift.

Evie: Optimism, Viola.

Viola: Optimism, Evie, and a touch of faith.

Grad: Faith and optimism are sometimes all we have, dear hearts. And considering the alternative...

Evie: Oh, absolutely! Absolutely! Might as well look on the bright side. Isn't that right, Vi?

Viola: Indeed...yes...indeed! I've always said so. I'm famous for it.

Evie: Yes, of course...but, we are not talking about you at this moment, are we dear?

Viola: W-e-l-l, really Evelyn...

Grad: Come now, don't argue. Oh, I almost forgot about Duffy! Let me them about Duffy.

I must say one last word about Duffy. He went on to receive a degree in Journalism from the University of Wisconsin. He returned to Winona, raised a family of boisterous sons, and wrote a sports column for the Winona Republican-Herald for many years entitled, appropriately, "The Duffer." I never had any doubt about him.

So, that is all there is to the story I promised you. I ask your forgiveness in the clumsiness of its telling. I hope you understand that it if it had not been for a series of seemingly random events, it would never have been told at all. If there is a lesson to be learned, perhaps it was meant for me alone to decipher. And if there is no lesson? Well, that will be all right too.

Evelyn: Well, what do you think she will do now?

Viola: Perhaps she will put it all away, up in the attic.

Evelyn: Or, perhaps not. We lived in some pretty colorful times when we were young, Viola. It was The Jazz Age, afterall.

Viola: I still think she will box it all up and put it in the attic. What more is there to tell?

Grad: I might and I might not. It seems like a small story, I agree. But, maybe each one of us adds our own story to the one already told. And it becomes a larger story and then it becomes our history. Maybe we must tell our own stories while we are able, rather than leave it to chance? Rather than leave it to someone else from another place and another time....Is that the lesson? Evie?...Vi?

But they were gone. Perhaps there was a bridge game or a newcomer who needed to be eased through the first pangs of homesickness.

"They could have at least said good-bye," I thought, a little disappointed. I would have liked the chance to say good-bye - or hello.

The Girl Graduate: Part V: Viola In Bloom

Viola sat at her bedroom window wistfully watching the falling snow. The wind was catching small sections of it, creating little frosty cyclones. Oh, how she wished she was outside to feel both wind and snow upon her face! There would be no chance of that - none whatsoever, unless she was lucky enough to get to the front door without anyone taking notice. As she gleefully pondered how she would pull off her great escape, she settled back into her chair and closed her eyes. In just a few weeks, she would celebrate her 100th Christmas. Notwithstanding the big fuss made over her last birthday, she was not certain that crossing the century mark was all it was cracked up to be.

Viola: I was not a hot house plant, after all. Surely a little cold air and a romp in the snow would have done no harm.

Grad: I imagine they just wanted to protect you, Viola. You could have caught cold, or fallen on ice and...

Viola: And what? What is there to fear at that age?

Grad: You've got a point there, Vi.

In her reverie, Viola thought about the telephone call from the stranger - something about Evie's little graduation book. She might forget what she had for lunch yesterday; but, she had no trouble at all in remembering fine details of the long-ago past. The faces of the Class of 1924 remained crystal clear to Viola; they never aged. The old woman who stared back at her from the mirror this morning was the one she could not recognize. Was it really 83 years ago that she delivered her valedictory address, she mused? She could still recite portions of it by heart.


Anyone entering Viola's room at that moment would have thought she was napping. Why did people assume that the ancient did nothing but doze, she fussed inwardly. In point of fact, she was wide awake, and young once more. It was another December - the winter of 1925. Once again she was in charge of planning an event - the annual reunion ball. Her mission was to arrange a program that would be in keeping with the "spirit of the occasion for renewing old memories of life at Old W.H.S." to be held on January 1. When she walked into the ballroom, even she was enthralled with the elaborate decorations. Viola had never felt more beautiful. She had selected a dark green silk frock with long sleeves that ended in a ruffle at each wrist. The drop waist skirt consisted of three soft tiers which, she rightly imagined, would float beautifully around her slim figure as she danced. As the strains of "I'll See You In My Dreams" filled the hall, she and a handsome young man (who I do not believe was Joseph) took to the floor - they danced all night. "If I live to be one hundred," she thought, "I will never forget how happy I am tonight." She never did forget.

As I reported previously, Viola and Joseph got "quietly married" in 1931. He became a successful lawyer; she stayed at home and raised the children which, I have no doubt, brought her satisfaction and joy. I do not know how she filled her days, but knowing Viola as I do, I am confident she filled them well. Joseph died suddenly when Viola was 57. For the first time in her life, she charted her course according to her own compass.

She would later tell her granddaughter that her life did not begin until Joseph died. She would always laugh when she said it; nevertheless, there was truth behind the wink. Joseph left her financially comfortable, and no one would have been surprised if his widow had decided to live out her days gardening and attending the theater. But such a life was not for our Viola - most definitely not.

Instead, Vi went to work. First, as an administrative secretary (apparently still utilizing what she learned in "short and type" class). And then, after attending college and receiving her four-year degree in business administration at the age of 70, as an accountant. By the way, Viola graduated from college with Honors (No surprise there, Vi), and became a charter member of the External Studies Honor Society at Winona State. Her late-in-life accomplishments continue to be a great source of pride to her family.

Viola did not retire until after she turned 80, and lived on her own until she was 95. From newsletters published by the retirement home to which she moved, it is apparent that she remained in the thick of things. Viola breathed deeply of every minute she was given.

I had planned on visiting Viola after the holidays in January 2007. I was to pack up Evie's little book, and the yearbooks. I had so many questions for her; however, I found myself in an odd situation. Whereas, by that time she was a friend to me, I was merely a stranger to her. I wasn't certain how I would ask the questions for which I wanted answers: whether all the girls had a crush on Duffie (as I surely did), whether she had learned about her paternal grandfather's suicide, her thoughts on marriage and careers, what she would have done differently. Finally I decided I'd just say hello and tell her about my journey back in time. I'd let her lead the way, and the rest would fall into place. Nevertheless, I still had to explain what I was doing there, and I was very nervous. She might find the whole project a ghastly waste of time. But I was also certain that if our roles were reversed, she would press on. So press on it was.

Viola died on January 11, 2007; we never had our meeting.

I was stunned and saddened and angry at myself for not searching harder. I could have found her a full year earlier; I could have traveled during the holiday.

Viola: Well, don't feel too badly, my dear, it could have been worse. You might have come to call when a Vikings game was on, and I would have been too busy to see you then. You would have had to wait until half time.

Grad: I was fore-warned that you were quite a Vike's fan.

Viola: Rabid, Grad, rabid.

Grad: (In a whisper so soft it could only be heard by dogs) Go, Bears.

I wish I had had the chance to tell Viola how greatly I admired her and what an inspiration she was and continues to be - how much I miss her even though we never met. I'll try to remember to breathe deeply, Vi, especially when the wind is blowing and the snow is falling and the seas are too rough to be safe. I'll try to remember to breathe deeply especially then.

The Girl Graduate, Part IV: Chance or Fate

There are those occasions in life when fate and chance intersect at the perfect moment. On such occasions it matters little which element is fate, or which is chance. The reasons why this story should have been lost are many; the fact that it survived still bewilders me.

Looking back on my own journey, I believe that discovering the yearbook of the Class of 1924 was more of a catalyst to pursue this story than was Evie's journal. Whereas the journal piqued my interest; the yearbook gave breath to characters who would otherwise have been merely names in a diary. It was through the yearbook that I was drawn into these lives lived so long ago; even more, it provided me with small threads of information which, when knitted together and then pieced with other small threads, proved to be invaluable.


Whether the resurrection of the 1924 Radiograph was fate or chance, it only narrowly made it to press. The yearbook had been abandoned by prior classes due to lack of funding. But our intrepid seniors were unwilling to yield to such historical precedent (a determination that served some of them all their lives.) By way of dances, and bridge parties, bake sales, balloon sales, and advertising they inched toward the needed goal. By mid-year, it was clear that a major money-maker was sorely needed. Not only money, but time, was about to run out. Brilliant ideas are born out of desperate times. The "wiener lunch" was conceived as the last ditch effort to "save the Radiograph." And who was at the forefront of the endeavor, you might ask? Viola, business manager for the Radiograph, rolled up her sleeves and with the precision of a field marshal sending her troops into battle, coordinated the potato peeling, the cabbage chopping, and the wienie roasting to successfully serve 200 lunches to students and faculty, returning a profit of $40.00 - enough to publish the yearbook.


Pure and simple, Viola is someone who succeeded. I believe she did so quietly, and without fanfare, but there is no doubt she succeeded. As the top student in the Class of '24, Viola was offered scholarships to six colleges, including one to my Alma Mater. She chose to pursue a two year degree at the local teachers college (which would later become Winona State University, and which would play a major role in this story). It surprised no one that she graduated with honors in academics, and in athletics. Nevertheless, I was a little disappointed to learn she set her feet in that direction, for I do not believe Viola was following her passion in doing so. It is far more likely that she took the route which was most expected of her. She most surely had already met Joseph, the boy she would eventually marry, and his course was set in a particular direction. Her compass reflected his.


Joseph was, in his own right, an excellent student who attended the local Catholic school. Viola attended the Lutheran Church, and I often wonder if this dichotomy deadened both families' enthusiasm for the union. Joseph graduated from the University of Minnesota School of Law in 1929. By 1931 he was working as a lawyer in Rochester. A small article in the Winona Republican-Herald in August of that year notes that a "miscellaneous" bridal shower was given for Viola at the home of her parents. Since the evening was spent "playing bridge at three tables" it was obviously a small gathering.


In late August 1931, Viola and Joseph were quietly married at St. John's Church in Rochester. "The couple was unattended," read the newspaper. Those four words made my heart ache. The bride wore "a brown costume with accessories in harmonizing shades." I wonder if Joseph thought to present her with a small bouquet to carry, or if she might have at least worn a flower in her hair. Not everyone has, or indeed wants, a wedding of white froth and orange blossoms. That is not what saddens me about Viola's wedding day. The fact that they seem to have embarked on married life without the warm embrace of family or friends does bother me. The distance between Rochester and Winona is a little over 50 miles; and, even in 1931 would not have been a difficult journey, especially without the challenges of winter roads. Why was there no mother, or father, or sibling present; did the marriage cause a rift? Did Viola's family still suffer from questions arising from an old suicide? Were the families opposed to the marriage on religious grounds? I have no answers. If she had not been raised a Catholic, Viola certainly continued to practice as one after her marriage.


Viola and Joseph settled in Stewartville, where Joseph practiced law. He was apparently successful and opened a second office in Rochester; Viola stayed home to raise at least four children, 3 boys and 1 daughter. There is no evidence that she pursued any of her own artistic pursuits during this period. It would have been in her character, however, to fulfill her role as wife and mother with excellence.

There is an insurmountable frustration involved in telling some one's story with only a skeleton of a life to consider. I can tell you where Viola started, where she wandered, and where she eventually settled, but the essence of a person can only be the stuff of speculation with information that sketchy. Once again, as has happened so often in my pursuit of this story, fate or chance or something else intervened. I lose track of Viola as she lived out her role of wife and mother. I do not pick up any trace of her until many years later; but, I eventually do find her. And no one was more surprised than I was.


Grad: Viola, it is no surprise to me that what comes next is really the best part of your story.


Viola: Life must be lived...all of it. But, have you discovered what you were meant to learn yet?


Grad: About you?


Viola: No. What you were meant to learn.


Grad: About chance?


Viola: Oh, I don't believe in chance.


Grad: Fate, then? Like Shakespeare once said? The answer lies not in our stars but in ourselves, or something like that?


Viola: I don't believe that things are written in the stars, either. What would be the challenge in that? Keep thinking; you'll figure it out.


Grad: Well, had I known there would be a test involved afterward, I might not have started this.


Viola: Yes, you would have. You most certainly would have.

The Girl Graduate, Part III: Viola Takes The Stage

It was the evening of June 12, 1924. The weather was unsettled and cooler than usual for that time of year. Lightening buzzed and crackled far off in the southeastern sky. The threat of rain hung in the air. But tonight marked the coming of age of the Class of 1924 and nothing could dampen their spirits.

The week had been a full one. Commencement Services held on June 8 at the First Congregational Church included scripture readings (which would be unheard in a public school today), a quartet of voices performing "O, Come to My Heart, Lord Jesus", a sermon entitled "A Good Investment," by the Rev. Ostergren, several hymns and prayers and finally the Postlude (the other end of a Prelude) consisting of an unspecified work by Vincent. The Senior Class Play, A Midsummer Night's Dream, had been performed - to rave reviews - the night before. All that remained was this final step forward.


Viola: I didn't think about it at that moment, but it would be the last time we were all together in one place.

Evelyn: Didn't you allude to that in your speech that night? I seem to remember you saying something about it being "a brief and fleeting moment, held aloft by a fragile gossamer cord..."

Viola: Evelyn, I do believe you are making that up.

Evelyn: No. No, on second thought I am quite sure of it.

Viola: I cannot imagine I said anything of the sort. You perhaps have my speech confused with Lucille's. She was always so dramatic - a regular Agnes Ayres in "The Sheik".

Evelyn: With Rudolph Valentino! "Captured and Carried Away!" Isn't that how the newspaper put it?

Viola: Whatever are you talking about?

Evelyn: You know, "The Sheik...A story of stolen love that has sent a new thrill through the English speaking world."

Viola: Ah, yes. But, I was making the point that Lucille was more apt to dramatics than was I. "Fragile gossamer cord" indeed - surely attributable to her.

Grad: I appreciate getting the fine details correct. Ladies, don't be shy, just jump right in whenever you feel the urge. Now, Viola's story...where shall I start?

Viola: I've always found the beginning the most logical place.

And so I shall. It was October 19, 1906. Theodore Roosevelt announced that he would once again be a candidate for the President of the United States if it appeared that William Randolph Hearst was to win his bid for governor of New York. "If the democrats win in New York, the next democratic candidate for the presidency may be William R. Hearst." This was a prospect Roosevelt regarded as a "calamity." He would therefore yield to popular demand, "cast aside a personal preference for private life," and accept another term as president - for the good of the country, of course.

Alberta Gallatin was appearing at the Winona Opera House in the N.Y. Lyric Theatre success, "Dorothy Vernon of Haddon Hall" complete with the original electrical effects. Tickets were selling for $1.50, although lesser desirable seats could be had for as little as 25 cents.

Men's wool suits, promising "long and satisfactory wear" were on sale for between $8 and $25 at the Columbia Clothing Store. Why was one man not as well and fittingly dressed as another, you might ask? The owners of the Columbia Clothing Store had the answer. "It is because of carelessness in buying".

But most important to my story, Viola was born. Her father's name was Edward; and, although I know her mother's maiden name I have not as yet been able to discover her first name. As was the custom then - and often remains so now - once a woman was married, she had little identity of her own separate from that of her husband. Viola's mother - when she was referred to at all in newspaper articles - was therefore identified only as "Mrs. Edward (blank)." Edward was a very young father, being only 21 years old when Viola was born. She was followed in fairly close succession by a brother, Harold, and a sister, Cleora.

I wonder about Edward's childhood and whether it might have been blighted in some way. If so, did it seep into Viola's young life as well? Despair and unhappiness are all too often legacies passed from one generation to the next.

Edward's father, Herman, was born in Germany in 1851. I do not know when he immigrated to the United States, but by 1886 he was residing in Winona, and Edward had been born. He owned his own tailor shop, although the fact that he and his family lived above a bakery suggests it may not have been an entirely profitable enterprise.

Was darkness always skulking silently around the edges of their lives, waiting like an opportunistic thief? Or was it a bold interloper who sat at the table with them every night and loudly dominated their dinner conversation? I will never know. Whatever its relationship to Herman's family, it made its presence felt on a bright June day in 1907.

On that particular morning, Edward's father had his breakfast, as usual, with his family and went to his tailor shop. At around 10:00 a.m. a customer entered the shop, having made an appointment with the tailor to alter some clothing. Finding the shop empty, he entered the little work room where Herman often did his cutting and sewing. Herman was sitting in a chair and the customer called out to him. When there was no answer, he called out again, and yet again. Advancing closer, the customer realized that Herman was dead; a revolver was lying on the floor at his side. Herman apparently placed the revolver against his right temple, just above the ear, and pulled the trigger. He had taken the precaution of loading all six chambers; only one was needed. Whatever it was that he could not face will never be known. Herman took all the answers with him.

During the investigation that followed, it was revealed that Herman had hinted at suicide the previous week. His sons were so concerned they confiscated their father's pistol. The night before his death Herman walked into the gun shop, just before closing time, and purchased another.

When her paternal grandfather took his life, Viola was almost 8 months old. Her father was 22. One has to believe there were residuals to this tragedy. If and in what way they affected Viola's life is pure speculation. And yet, surely this event would have had a profound effect on her father, and in turn, on her. Perhaps the family never spoke of it. Nevertheless, I am certain she would have known this sad family history. Its burden on her personally, or whether it had any effect on who she became, is impossible to say.

Evelyn: Where are we, Grad?

Grad: We're at the lagoon on the street where I live.

Evelyn: It seems to be a good place to think.

Grad: At this time of day, the sun sits too low in the sky. The light hurts the eyes.

Evelyn: Maybe this is a good place in the story to pause...just for a little while.

And so it is.