A Plinky prompt from today asked “What are the 3 most significant historic events that have occurred in your lifetime?” I grew up in the 1960’s, which was a decade of unparalleled change in our country, so picking the three most significant events was difficult.  Below are the three events  that I came up with today, but on another day I might choose  three completely different occurrences.

The first was Vatican II, and all the change that happened in the Catholic Church due to what was called the Ecumenical Council. One Vatican II change that affected my family quite personally was that many religious orders of sisters were given the freedom to go visit their families at their homes. I had three aunts and two sisters in the convent at this time. Growing up, we were able to go visit them, but they could not come to our home until this change in the 1960’s, when they were given papal permission to leave their residence. It was a very exciting and happy day to have the Aunties come visit, even if Mom was almost driven crazy by us kids making a mess of the house after she had spent so much time making it look especially inviting.

The second was the Viet Nam War, which was escalating as far as participation by the US in the 1960’s. One of my older brothers, Paul, a Marine, made three tours of Viet Nam. He was in an outfit of misfits, called the Baa Baa Blacksheep. During his third tour, the helicopter he was in was shot down, and crashed in the jungle. He was badly injured, but was brought out successfully and sent to hospital for surgery on his jaw, which needed to be wired shut. He also was placed in a full length cast for a fractured leg. He did his final convalescence at our house, which made life interesting, and a little scary, for us younger kids at home. You can imagine how monster-like Paul seemed to us with his crutches and plaster casted leg, and his inability to speak because of all the wires in and around  his mouth. Plus, we had seen his outbursts of anger and frustration, and didn’t want to get caught in the maelstrom if he got mad. We learned  to observe him at a distance, this man who seemed to bring some part of the Viet Nam War with him everywhere he went. When he finally left our house, he came back only for brief, uneasy visits.

The third 1960’s historical event that I recall was racial integration, which was a time of rioting, danger, courage and hope. It seemed that every night the papers and the  news showed neighborhoods being destroyed, blacks being sprayed with fire hoses and demonstrations being held somewhere by some group or another. I recall thinking, “Won’t there ever be a night when the news will be free of all this hate between races?” It was continuous turmoil in those years; not in Yemen or Libya, but right here in the USA.

 I was between the ages of 8 years old and 18 years old during this period of time. I considered it a great relief to be out  of the 1960’s.

Dear Mrs. Rosemary Wagoner,

I had heard of your reputation as a strict and unforgiving teacher from my older sister and her classmates. They were in awe of you, knew you were tough, a hard grader, and had high expectations of all those who were in any of your classes.  I had you for English in my junior year, and the rumors were all true; you deserved your reputation. One warning had been: “She won’t accept any excuses for unfinished or missed work. No crying or protestations of illness or fatigue will make her cut you any slack on assignments.”

While listening to the scuttlebutt in the lunchroom about the teachers at Holy Angels High School, one thing I did not remember hearing about you, (probably because fear had stuffed cotton balls in my ears), was what a fascinating teacher you were. I only learned this when I was finally seated in your classroom – second row, last seat on the right. You knew your subject, Shakespeare, backward and forward. Shakespeare, his time and work, seemed to occupy the present tense when you taught. You told us all kinds of stories his poetry, his plays, and about the characters in his plays. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth came to be with us in your classroom, as well as Hamlet, Ophelia, Shylock, Portia, and many more.

One beautiful spring day toward the end of class, you told us to get out a piece of paper and write our homework assignment. We were to have memorized Macbeth’s soliloquy, “Tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow.” After we had finished, you gave us permission to leave, which meant getting out of school early as English Lit was the last class of the day. Bonus! But – I had completely forgotten about the memorization assignment. On the other hand, I clearly recalled your “no excuses for missed work” stance. I momentarily considered the idea to fake my way through this Shakespearean oration, then realized how inept and foolish that would be. After the shock wore off, I stood up and placed a blank piece of paper with my name on it on your massive oak desk and turned to go.

You went to your desk and picked up the paper, then called me back into the room. “There’s nothing on here,” you said, your ice-blue eyes looking straight through me. “I know,” I answered. “I forgot to do the assignment.” “That means a ‘zero’ for your grade, you realize.” I said, yes, I knew that. You looked at me for a few seconds, then tossed the paper in the waste basket and said, “I let every student have one ‘freebie’. This is yours.” I stared at you in shocked disbelief! You smiled at me and said, “Get going.”

Was this the truth?  Did you give every student a ‘by’ during the year? I had never heard this about you, and yet, I was experiencing that very thing. If it was true of you, then no one had dared to speak of it, and I wasn’t going to be the first. I went on my way, a very happy, and surprised, student.

Thanks, Mrs. Wagoner, for the wonderful way that you taught us Shakespeare. And thank you for your act of grace toward me that day. You set high standards in your classroom, and expected compliance from your students, but I think you showed me the embodiment of mercy on that occasion, as in Portia’s speech from “The Merchant of Venice”:

“The quality of mercy is not strain’d,

It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven

Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest:

It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”

Yours sincerely,

Teri

Mom tried to explain that Seattle was not a big city, and was not well known in our own country, much less the world. In fact, Seattle was so insignificant a city  that it had been mispronounced on the national news! “See -tle! That’s what he said! I could hardly believe my ears, but it just shows-to-go-ya what a small town we really are.” She continued talking. I was mostly listening, and maybe even nodding my head, but inside I was thinking, “Wrong-wrong-wrong.”  To a kid my age, 8 yrs old,  Seattle was a huge metropolis with all the power and possibility you could imagine. Seattle was going to be the site of  a World’s Fair, after all! That is why Seattle was in the news at the national level.  The country had to pay attention now to the Emerald City situated on Puget Sound in the Great Northwest of the United States. A World’s Fair was coming in less than two years! It was to be called The 1962 Century 21 Exposition. Yes, the focus of this World’s Fair was the future – no looking back for us Seattle-ites. Plans were in the works for ultra-modern buildings, fountains,and  plazas (these words I understood), a mono-rail and a Space Needle (these words I had never heard before.) The fair was so futuristic they had to make up new words to describe the structures it would feature. Take that, New York! HA! It was a very exciting time to be a kid. And I believe it probably was the World’s Fair that helped to move Seattle out from underneath her cumbersome, rain-soaked umbrella image, and into the streamlined, fast-paced, future focused spotlight… correct pronunciation and all.

Was thinking about an event that occurred in Seattle in April, 1965. I, and all my brothers and sisters, attended a Catholic elementary school called St. John’s, located in the Greenwood district. St John’s Church was situated on the same parcel of land as the school, and mass was celebrated there each day before classes began.

On the morning of April 29th, 1965, I was attending mass alone, that is, not with my class, and I was sitting in the very last pew of the church. Children in the  lower grades sat in the front pews with their teachers – boys on St Joseph’s side,  girls on Mary’s side.  Mass had just ended when  there was loud rumbling throughout the nave  and I heard Sister Mary St. Martha say, “You boys stop that noise!”  I caught sight of something moving overhead, and looked up to see the huge glass-and-brass lamps swaying back and forth in the highly arched, Romanesque-styled ceiling of the church. Even as a mere 6th grader I knew that the boys weren’t rowdy enough to cause that kind of disruption! I guessed that this was an earthquake, and since I was in the back pew of the church, I ran out the main doors and headed for the steps to the street. As I exited the church I saw that everything was rolling with a wave-like movement – the brick walls of the church, the wrought iron railing, the cement  landing upon which I was trying to stand. I was questioning if I could get safely down all 10 church steps  while they were in motion, when everything stopped. I looked in amazement around me, and tried to decide if it was okay to move down to the sidewalk or not; I could see that the steps had cracked, and that bricks and other debris  lay on the ground. I really don’t recall the particulars of what happened at school after this, but I do know that we, and all students throughout the city, were sent home  so that authorities could determine the extent of damage to school structures. When all of my family got home that day we  had plenty of stories to share about where we were when the earthquake struck.  Mom laughed out loud when I repeated what Sister had said in church to the boys.

Later that day, we learned from the news stations that Seattle and the surrounding area had experienced an earthquake that registered 6.5 on the Richter scale, which is quite a substantial earthquake. Recalling Sister Mary St. Martha’s reprimand to the students at the start of the earthquake, I asked Mom,  “Think  Sister will ever admit that it wasn’t the 4th grade boys that caused all the commotion?” Mom just smiled. Guess I’ll never know.