In 1906 Helen Gale McKennan willed $25,000.00 to fund a new hospital in Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Recently, McKennan Hospital was hit by a tornado in honor of her middle name ( I made that last part up). Fortunately, no one was hurt, although patients had to be evacuated.
McKennan happens to be the hospital where my brother, David was born 74 years ago. I was 9-years old, waiting at home for the news, when Dad called, and excitedly said, “Esther, you have a baby brother,” I replied, “Goody! Goody! Is it a boy or a girl?”
A couple of years later, I took my little brother, in his stroller, to McKennan Park. NO! everything in Sioux Falls is not named McKennan. Anyway, after playing on the swings, monkey bars and slides (those were the unsafe but fun days) it was time to go home. I put my protesting brother back into the stroller, and we started to leave the park—as the wind whipped up. Suddenly, the sky and the grass turned an eerie brown, the birds stopped chirping, and the wind abruptly stopped. I knew that something was terribly wrong, and started running into, what was now, a wall of wind. As we got to the house, our worried Mother threw herself against the front door (from the inside) because I couldn’t open it and hang onto my little brother at the same time, as we were blown into the living room. To this day, I remember the force of that storm, and the sight of seeing a big tree sticking out of the side of our neighbor’s house.
That was a long time ago. Our parents are now deceased, but once a year, when my brother and I get together, I can see Mother’s sparkle in his eyes, and enjoy the same sense of humor that he inherited from our Father. We laugh a lot sharing childhood memories that go something like this:
“Esther, do you remember that Mom used to like moving furniture around, and one night Dad came home, threw himself into the bed and landed on the floor.”
“David, do you remember when you tried cigarettes, and you were smoking in the bathroom, and you opened the window so you wouldn’t get caught, and Mom was picking flowers under that window.”
Oh, the memories. Dad was asked to conduct a funeral of a woman, who had lived a long life with the object of making everyone who knew her miserable. I said, “Dad can you find anything nice to say about her?” “Yes,” he replied. “She made good chicken soup.”
Our Father died 15 years ago this month, so the looking back that my brother and I share is very near and dear. Our parents didn’t have an easy life, but our home was filled with love and lots of laughter. One day, Dad saw Mother standing in front of a mirror swiping a hemorrhoid suppository under her eyes. He said, “Dear, what are you doing?” She replied, “This is supposed to reduce the puffiness.” Whereupon, he replied, “Sweetheart, I think you are using it at the wrong end.”
I remember, David and a little pal climbing into our Grandmother’s apartment window, and eating the cookies she had baked—just to show her how to prevent future burglaries.
One day, our Father was in his study when he hear a commotion in the Congregational Sanctuary. He saw a little boy running around and around. So, Dad spoke into the pulpit microphone and said, “No running around in God’s House!” Later, that little boy proudly said, “Rabbi, God spoke to me!” I am sure that the kid became either a rabbi or an atheist.
Our Father was a man who had friends of many faiths. In his retirement, He and my Mother moved to a senior residence in Tampa, Florida, that was under the auspices of the Episcopalian Church. When one of their friends, who lived there, died, our Dad was the first one to offer solace to the grieving widow. He took her hand, and said, “Martha, would you like
me to say a prayer for you?” She replied, “Karl, you know that I am an atheist.” He replied, “I could say it,’To Whom It May Concern.’”
Sweet memories reinforce the knowledge that —people die—but love lives on.
Esther Blumenfeld