By Sara McDermott

I love to smoke, and at the same time, I desperately want to quit.  It is April 2nd, 1973, and I am at my desk with a cup of hot black coffee steaming into my face as I take the first satisfying drag on a king-size Tarryton.  I adore the acrid smell and taste of cigarette smoke.  I can feel the smooth white cylinder nestled between my fingers as the nicotine sinks into the back of my tongue and calms my craving.  A sharp pain stabs my ribs, and I look around to make sure no-one sees my grimace of discomfort.

My friend is in back of me moaning softly into her coffee.  She’ll try to get me down there again today, but I can’t go.  They show us pictures of gray lungs and tell us to bring our lunch.  Northwestern Bell is sponsoring a five day “quit smoking” clinic.

God,  I  can’t stand it.

My friend has put the literature from the clinic here on my desk.  It’s all the same old stuff.  They teach breathing exercises for crying out loud.  If I could breathe I wouldn’t be complaining.

It is one o’clock and there is more literature on my desk.  I am silently screaming, “Leave me alone.  I can’t do it”.   But my friend can.  She has gotten through almost two days of abstinence.  If I had started when she did I’d be in my second day without a cigarette now.

My brain struggles with the love and hatred of smoking, and I get an idea.  That first delicious cigarette as I drink coffee in the morning is the hardest to give up.  The literature backs up my point.  It says that coffee and cigarettes go together.  Why not start now?  Tomorrow morning when I  pour the coffee I’ll have several hours of deprivation behind me.  It might work.  I put my cigarette out in a round safety ashtray that has resided on my desk for several years.   I feel the gray depression almost immediately.  What will I do without my nicotine?

Iowa is in  the midst of its wettest Spring on record in 1973.  Puffy, low-hanging clouds bulge with rain as I head for home.  The streets are so full it makes the six o’clock news.  I watch TV and fidget through the supper hour;  then I go to bed early.  There doesn’t seem to be anything to do if I can’t have a cigarette.

It is 7:30 a.m. on April, 3rd, and my ploy has worked.  I am on my way to work, and I haven’t had a cigarette yet.  Nevertheless, as another soggy day begins, the thought of nicotine dominates my brain.  I smell the heavenly scent of burning tobacco every time someone else lights up, but I remain strong.  If I can get through a month of these depressing days I will chalk it up as a victory.

The storms continue daily and the Des Moines Register runs articles about the record number of rainy week-ends.

By April 8th a light snow is falling as I leave for work.  Trudging up 10th St. from the bus drop-off I reflect on my six days without caffeine.  Sugarless gum and coffee can save me from the urge to eat, long walks around my neighborhood can wear out the jitters when the craving taunts me, but the bleakness of another work day without my crutch follows me into the building and all the way to my desk.

People are griping about snow in April, but that is the least of my worries.

I plunge into my administrative work.  There are lots of orders to type, phones are constantly ringing, complainers are complaining, and everyone is talking about the snow.  I’m just sitting in the middle of it telling myself it is only about seven more hours until I can climb onto the bus and head for home.

By mid-afternoon I notice people crowded around our 14th floor windows gazing at snow that seems to be turning into a blizzard.

By five o’clock all the buses downtown have stopped where-ever they happened to be when the snow rose too high around the wheels to allow them to move.  It slowly dawns on me that I won’t be able to find a way home when I hear that all the hotels are full and we won’t be able to leave the building.  I go down to the lobby and see snow-mobiles cruising around the loop; nothing else can move.

If this sounds like a recipe for disaster for an ex-smoker of one week, believe it.

Food is available in the cafeteria, and a large break room with easy chairs and couches can provide a place to relax as I wait for morning.  Coffee is available, of course, but you know what goes with coffee.  After an hour or so I decide to go up to the cafeteria and find some way to pass the time.   The first thing that hits me in the entryway is a row of cigarette machines.  It is like the devil himself has lured me to the area.  “Come on”, they seemed to say.  “Just one to pass the time won’t hurt”.  The time is stretching in front of me and I am tired and irritable.  A smoke seems just the thing to get me through the night.

For the next several hours, as I fantasize about the smell and taste of cigarettes, I wonder when I will give in.  Morning is so far away and sleep seems out of the question.  How long will I last?  Those machines are so close.  I can get there in few minutes and my torture will be over.

At about midnight, when it seems I have gritted the fillings out of my teeth, a thought comes to me.  You could call it an epiphany, I guess.  I call it the moment in a cartoon when a light bulb appears above the character’s head.  Hey, I’m Irish and the Irish are supposed to be stubborn almost by definition.  Stereotypes aside, maybe my Irish stubbornness can be put to good use.

My attitude changes to one of stoic resistance.  I am determined not to give in and let the monster win.  If it defeats me, I know I will regret it for a long time.  On the other hand, if I hold out I will be able to take private satisfaction in knowing I won the first real battle of the war.

The rest of the night I keep that thought in mind.  “Don’t give in” becomes my mantra.  If I can get through a few more hours knowing those cigarette machines are a short walk away it will be relatively easy to stay on course.

Irish stubbornness wins.  By morning I am congratulating myself on another smokeless 24 hours.  The snow has stopped and people are starting to head for home.  I con a ride and, by noon, am cleaning up snow in front of my duplex.

The temptations don’t end there, of course.  Many more times for the next few weeks I have to invoke my natural stubbornness to keep on track.  I simply will  not give in and light up.

It is May 1st and my desk calendar has cartoon face drawn on it.  Sun rays are coming out of the happy face, and the figure is wearing a halo.  The cartoon is supposed to be me.  I have one month of smokeless days behind me.

It is June 1st.   I belong to a new group now.  We hate cigarette smoke.  We love the taste of food.  We are counting the blessings of giving up cigarettes.  We are obnoxious and critical and proud.  We are ex-smokers and are sure we will never touch the weed again.

A Cautionary Tale

By Sara McDermott

My sister’s second child, Theresa, was a pretty little girl.  You know the type, big brown eyes with soft velvety lashes set in a peaches and cream face framed by bouncy brown hair.  She had the sweet shy disposition that endears little girls to any adult in the vicinity, and the sight of her with her hand in her brother’s hand could have been painted by Rockwell.

I took them to the lake often in those sun-tanning days of my own youth before cancer scares and wrinkles drove me inside to swim.

The day I remember was a crowded Sunday at Lake McBride south of Cedar Rapids.  The lake lay at the foot of a grassy hill with about fifty feet of sand at the bottom for sunning.  I had an old air mattress in the car that the kids loved to drag along the edge of the water, and I sat in the sand blowing it up while they ran around looking for friends.  Theresa was always the last in the pack, but she could run anyplace with the rest of them.  This day she and her big brother (he was six, she was three) found four or five of their friends and the fun began.

I gave them the air mattress, and, before I went back to the grassy area to sit down, told the other kids to be sure to watch out for Theresa to see that she didn’t go out too far.  I sat back at the foot of the hill and watched as they dragged the mattress back and forth along the edge of the water.

It seemed only a second that I glanced away, but what I saw when I looked back will never fade from my memory.

The mattress was on its way out into the lake pulled by the bigger kids, and Theresa was frantically trying to grab the edge that she had been holding just seconds before.  When the boys pulled it out into deeper water she didn’t know better than to run along too.

I don’t recall getting up but I know that I jumped over assorted bodies on beach towels that lay between me and the water and, if I stepped on anyone, they didn’t protest or I didn’t hear them.

I saw her go under twice and that little hand reached for the third time as I ran for the water.

I suppose the sight of a near six-foot woman leaping over reclining bodies on the beach was quite an attention getter because I noticed one very puzzled looking man standing waist deep in the water staring at me and looking around to see what had gotten me on my feet.

Thank God he saw her struggling.  He reached over and pulled her out of the water and held her over his head like a weight-lifter so I could see her over the crowd.

The scene was a classic one of me blubbering all over the man that had rescued her.  I thanked and thanked him as I carried a very soggy little girl back to the beach blanket to dry out.

If I didn’t know before that day that children can’t be the care-takers of other children, I know it now.  I vested responsibility in kids too young to be responsible in a potentially dangerous situation.  I couldn’t have blamed anyone else if she had drowned, and I have carried that lesson around in my head ever since.

Rosa Parks – A Life, by Douglas Brinkley

Review by Sara McDermott

In Rosa Parks – A Life, Douglas Brinkley shows the steady un-compromising dedication to the cause of civil rights that Rosa Parks displayed throughout her life.  Parks never sought the limelight in the struggle for justice in the post civil war South.  She was a behind-the-scenes worker until a chance encounter with a bullying bus driver thrust her into the middle of a confrontation whose time had come.  Rebellious in her own way Parks kept rock solid faith in the goodness of humanity even when faced with the abuse heaped upon the citizens of Montgomery, her adopted city.  Rosa Parks contributed courage and perseverance to a cause that demanded both.  Douglas Brinkley never missed a chance to remind the reader that, through thick and thin, Parks was always available whenever she was needed to carry on the work of the civil rights movement.

Brinkley describes Rosa’s upbringing as influenced by a combination of moral rectitude from her mother and the courage to stand up to injustice from her grandfather.  Rosa’s education revolved around a firm Christian faith and the discipline meted out at Miss White’s Montgomery Industrial School for Girls.   Miss White taught her girls the self respect and dignity that Rosa carried with her throughout her life.  When her aging grandfather fell ill Rosa didn’t hesitate.  She gave up her own ambitions to go where she was needed.  She always, it seemed, put others first.

Parks was not naïve about the Jim Crow laws in the 1930’s South.  They were repugnant to her, as they were to all blacks.  She was able to get a job at an airstrip near Montgomery after she returned to school and earned a high-school diploma.  Maxwell Field was integrated, at least to the extent that Rosa could ride the base trolley.  This little taste of an integrated society spurred her to join the NAACP, where she later became a crusader in the fight for voting rights.

Rosa joined the NAACP at the age of thirty.  She tried to register to vote in 1943 and 1944.  The usual obstacles to blacks’ voting rights were thrown in her path.  For example, office hours at the registration places were always over before the line of black people could get in, a charge that most black people could not afford was affixed to the voting privilege and a literacy test was required.  After taking the literacy test the officials refused to show Rosa why she had failed.  Rosa fought down her frustration and tried to  register two more times in 1944 and 1945 before she finally got her registration in the mail.  She cast her first vote in the 1945 Alabama Governor’s race.  Rosa had shown her perseverance throughout.  It was no small feat for a black woman in the 1940’s South to earn the right to vote.

Through hard work with the NAACP Rosa became invaluable to the Montgomery branch.  She balanced books, worked with the press to get the NAACP message out and kept up on all reported instances of racial discrimination that occurred in the city.  By her active involvement in the affairs of the NAACP she was becoming known in political circles.  She was gaining self confidence.  As others were starting to appreciate her quiet persistence in the face of the uphill struggle for justice, Rosa marched on, working at her day job as a seamstress and attending NAACP meetings in the evening.

When Rosa Parks boarded and took a seat on a city bus on that December evening in 1955 it was with anticipation of a restful evening at home after a long hard day at work.  When the driver asked her and three others to vacate the forward seats to accommodate white passengers Rosa stayed in her seat while the others moved.  When the bus driver demanded she stand up Rosa’s “no” must have echoed throughout the silent car.

When Rosa Parks was arrested the Montgomery police didn’t have an inkling of the effect her arrest would have.  To them she was just another black woman getting out of her place.  To her friends and the black citizens of Montgomery she was an upright, hard working seamstress who never cause harm to anyone.  The police in Montgomery probably had never heard of a lawsuit over civil rights.  Civil rights meant nothing to them.

When Rosa’s boss at the NAACP proposed that her arrest be the basis for a challenge to the constitutionality of Montgomery’s bus segregation ordinance she balanced her decision in her usual way.  She considered the danger to her family and thought of the Christian upbringing that taught her to turn the other cheek.  She knew, however, that Christians were also taught to stand up in the face of oppression.  She gave her permission to the lawyers to file a civil rights suit on her behalf.

The impact her decision would have on the fight for equal rights could not have been estimated by those closest to the fire.

Rosa’s reputation and demeanor meant that the black population of Montgomery was immediately ready to go to war for her.

The press, sensing a good story, was at her door in a matter of days.  What started out as a local challenge grew to a nationally reported story, and the leaders of the white power structure in Montgomery were perturbed.

It was 1955 and school integration was still in the future.  The country had not yet seen the brutal resistance the South would put up for their “honor” when confronted with demonstrations counter to the code of Jim Crow.

Still, the Parks story resonated with people outside of Alabama.  By December 6th, 1955, five days after her arrest, the New York Times ran an article referring to Rosa by name in connection with the bus boycott.

I believe from reading the Brinkley biography that the reason the incident involving Rosa Parks took fire is because she stood so tall in the eyes of the community.  The leaders of Montgomery did not know what to make of her resistance.  They were used to considering anyone who challenged the status quo as trouble makers.  Their strategy was to sully their names and scare them out of protesting.

“They messed with the wrong one”, one of her admirers shouted on the first day of the boycott.

That explains a lot to me.  Rosa had become a symbol.  Once that happened the civil rights cause had a patron saint who could inspire others.

Rosa Parks’ effect on the civil rights movement will probably be dissected for years to come but, in my eyes, she represented freedom to other African-Americans of the time.  They reached higher because of her example.

A memoir

By Sara McDermott

I was the brat and Donnie was the quiet one.  I was born on her sixth birthday and, in childhood pictures, she was often holding my hand or standing protectively near me.   Even in kindergarten it was always Donnie who rescued me if I got in trouble, and  explained my little problems to the nuns.

As quiet children sometimes do, she loved animals and, as she got older, she especially loved horses.  She had “horse” statues and “horse” pillows, and once she even bought a pair of jodhpurs and went around in them as if she had just come in from a ride.  I was rocking and rolling by then and thought her swing music and jodhpurs were dumb, but I could envy her curvy figure and long,  dark wavy hair.  She had beautiful arched eyebrows and smoldering green eyes, and I secretly wished for looks like hers instead of my round Irish face and mousy brown hair.

She was the first of us to get a good job.  She worked at the courthouse where she rubbed elbows with the city politicians.  And, oh how she loved her independence!  She bought an old green Plymouth and could come and go as she pleased.  Then, to top it all, she bought a horse.  She rented a stall for it at a farm near Ely.  She would drive out there in that old Plymouth every night and come home smelling like a stable.  She took me out to see it once.  It was a big gray Tennessee walker, and I thought it was ugly.  I was afraid of it too, so I just stood outside the stall while she fed and groomed it.  I think she was disappointed that I didn’t like the horse but, as usual, she didn’t say much.

I think that horse was her best friend then.  She wasn’t really outgoing.  Often she was sober and sometimes moody.  I wonder if she was lonely too.

Soon she was talking about raising horses.  She saved enough to get the mare bred, and finally she realized her dream of owning a colt.   I went to the country again to see it.  I thought the colt was much prettier than the mare.  It was brown all over except for a white spot on its nose.

This time I tried to show some enthusiasm.  I still didn’t get near, but Donnie was so proud of that colt she didn’t even notice.  She was as openly happy as I had ever seen her.   Those horses could have been her family and she spent more time than ever at the farm.

The colt had to be named and registered.  Dixie’s full name was “Dixie’s Golden Jubilee” and it fit her well, for sometimes in the late afternoon the sun would touch her with gold as she played in the pasture.

I went out to the farm occasionally, and I began to get a glimmer of why my big sister liked horses so much.  They were un-questioning friends,  and she was easy and affectionate with them.  She sometimes held her feelings back, but not with the mare and Dixie.  She talked gently to them, and they ran to her at once when she approached the fence.

Dixie was a frisky colt, and she often ran too fast and played too hard.  Donnie got a call at work about the accident.  The little horse had gotten caught in the fence and had a broken leg.  She would have to be shot.

Donnie handled it all.  She was strong and independent, and made the arrangements herself.  She did what had to be done and came home alone.

I misjudged her behavior.  She was in cool control of herself, and I couldn’t see the hurt.  I thought, “Doesn’t anything touch her?”

That night something woke me.  At first I thought someone had left our new television on.  Then I realized the muffled sobs were coming from her room.  She cried for a  long time, and for a long time I couldn’t get back to sleep.  My guilt, when I remembered my silent criticism of her, made me sad and uneasy, but I also began to respect her courage while I cursed my shyness.  I wasn’t brave enough to offer her comfort.

Donnie didn’t let the loss embitter her.  She raised her family in the country and instilled in her children a love and respect for all animals.

Note:  My sister, Donna Hernandez (Donnie), passed away on August 17, 2019.  This posting is to honor her memory.     SM

A short story fiction

By Sara McDermott

Diane rode every day. She loved the winding, hilly path that ran ten miles along the river, affording her both the exercise she needed and the time to savor some solitary hours away from the family of boarders and whiners she lived with.  She was on her own now and could barely afford her room in the big old Victorian mansion Mrs. Goody had turned into a cheap boarding house.  The other tenants, with their mundane lives and petty complaints, were of little interest to her.

Thick greenery dominated one side of the path while the other gave a clear view of the downtown buildings across the river.

On this Monday riders were scarce so it wasn’t a good day for hobby.  Diane grinned to herself.  Slow days were always a challenge.  She bided her time and listened for any sound that would disturb the calm that surrounded her.   But today all was quiet and she concentrated on her enjoyment of nature and the fun of riding along feeling the strength in her legs and the cool breeze pushing her long hair back from her face.

A shadow played briefly on the wall of small trees and bushes.  Something moved and rustled the foliage underfoot and she was momentarily unnerved.  She strained to see through the thick brush as she slowed down to catch her breath.

“Nothing there,” Diane said to herself, “I’ll try again tomorrow.”

Lost in her own thoughts of the reason for her daily trips, Diane marveled at how easy it was to indulge her hobby out here in nature’s playground.  The afternoon sun stroked her back and settled over her,  calming her and rejecting any second thoughts she might have as she trembled in anticipation of the next day’s ride.

She heard the shrill high-pitched whistle marking the noon break at the cereal plant across the river as she retreated.  She suppressed a giggle.  Most likely no-one would hear a scream at noon on a weekday.  She liked intrigue and danger.  She often let her imagination run amok on these rides.

Diane started early the following day.  It was July in Iowa with oppressive humidity, and she expected only the hardiest of riders to brave the heat.

Again she heard the soft rustle of someone on the other side of the bank of trees.  She wondered why anyone would be skulking around on foot on such a hot day.  She sometimes heard voices out here but today all was quiet.  She tried to relax and enjoy the solitude but something nagged at her.

Farther over beyond the trees was a small lake mostly used for fishing.  There were a few picnic tables no-one ever used and some fire pits for grilling, even though they too were seldom ever used.  The few people who fished there never took pains to be quiet.

Diane rode a little faster.  She was approaching a secluded portion of the trail where thick foliage shut out the sun and cast shadows on the trees.  She always felt a twinge of excitement when she reached this point in her ride.  She relished the half darkness and the feeling of strength and power it gave her.   She chuckled to herself.  To think of herself as powerful was laughable considering her innocent face and petite stature.

She kept hearing the same rustling noise that she had noticed when she entered the trail.  She stopped and looked around carefully.  There definitely was someone moving with her as she made her way along the path.  She knew every inch of the surrounding area and was confident no-one could get the drop on her.  All she had to do was secure the bike and circle around the lake on foot.  The stalker would be expecting her to stay on the path, but she would be behind him as he searched for her on the bike.

Derek was almost finished with the day’s work when he reached the picnic area next to the lake.  He liked his job because he could set his own hours and work at his own pace.

He was an arborist.  His job was to monitor and treat trees and other woody plants.  He ran a consulting service and lived by himself.  He loved nature and respected all forms of life.  Derek had few enemies, and when he had spare time, he liked to hike and clear his head by admiring nature in all its forms.

Diane trekked around the trees and stood looking at the lake with a satisfied grin teasing her mouth.  It wouldn’t do to move too fast.  She had glimpsed a man alone in the fishing area by the picnic tables.  She liked to savor the moment when she finally got the opportunity to indulge her pastime.  Her late husband had always ruined her fun at a time like this.  He was a dull man with no taste for excitement or adventure, the reason she had tired of him.  She much preferred her life now, no ties, no lectures, just freedom.

Derek was sitting on one of the picnic benches, his back to her.  Diane couldn’t help but notice his lean, supple body and good looks as she approached the table.  He didn’t move or turn toward her.  He was absorbed in watching a wary, bright-eyed squirrel guarding a tiny stack of acorns slated for winter storage.

“Probably a tree-hugger,” she said to herself.

Derek gasped and cried out as she guided the sharp knife easily into his back.  His right rib and lung were hit first, paralyzing him with pain.  Diane was practiced and accurate by now.  It took the aim of an expert  to move quickly and stab again, this time in the direction of his heart.  He coughed once as the blood shot out of his mouth, and then all was quiet again.

Diane reveled in the realization that she was getting better when she saw how easily Derek had died.

The shrill noon whistle blared out across the river as she trotted through the trees to retrieve her bike.

She smiled contentedly as she rode for home.  She wondered what Mrs. Goody was preparing for lunch.

“The Jungle” by Upton Sinclair

Review by Sara McDermott

Upton Sinclair’s moving chronicle of human misery strikes at the heart of the political corruption and brutal working conditions rampant in turn of the century Chicago.  In “The Jungle” Sinclair takes us along a path of betrayal and deceit experienced by one Lithuanian family in their quest for a better life in America in 1904.  Sinclair tells us in vivid detail the heartbreaking journey the family takes from the streets of Chicago’s “Packingtown” to the final fragmentation of the family in Chicago’s seedy red light district.  Sinclair, a newly converted socialist, makes the case for the working man as victim when the protagonist, Jurgis Rudkus, turns finally to socialism after years of betrayal and abuse from those in power in the meatpacking industry.

Immigrants who came to America in the early part of the twentieth century did not know the language or the ways of a city such as New York.  They could be easily herded here and there by unscrupulous policemen and city officials who coveted the meager amount of money they had carefully pinned inside their clothes for the crossing.  When New York finished fleecing the Rudkus family they were unceremoniously put on a train for Chicago and the thriving industry of meat processing and packing.  The bosses in the killing plants and packing rooms were provided with an endless supply of pseudo slaves who streamed innocently into the workplace for the pittance offered them.  They had nowhere else to go and no other way of making a living.

Living conditions were another matter.  The net widened long enough for Jurgis to be taken in by tricky real estate agents who sold him a home on time without explaining the terms of the loan.  The family spent the better part of the next few years trying to eke out enough for payments and taxes that exceeded their ability to pay.

One reads the book in fascinated horror at the never ending trials the family is put through.  Workers are obliged to be on the job, period.  There is no provision for sickness and no sympathy for weakness.  Ona, the wife of Jurgis, lives in fear that she will lose her place if she cannot make it to work.  In a scene that will live in my memory, Jurgis has to carry her to the plant in a snowstorm because the trolley cars are not running and they need the dollar or two she makes each day.

Women and children in Packingtown are expendable.  On the job the superintendent, Connor, is nothing more than a pimp.  Woman who resist his advances are either fired or sent to a brothel to break their rebellious ways.  Children put to work selling newspapers learn the brutalities of the street on their own.  No one, it appears, cares if these people live or die, and they often die unattended and are buried as paupers.

The description of the industry itself caused a drop in meat consumption for several years after the book was published, according to the introduction by Morris Dickstein.  Even one scene describing the abysmal neglect of sanitation, such as diseased cattle being butchered and added to the commercial meat, was most likely enough to open the eyes of the reading public.

The politicians of the time redefined corruption.  The old joke, vote early and often, was a reality in Chicago in the early twentieth century.  Jurgis, much later in the book, joined the fray and finally earned enough money to be comfortable by helping to rig elections and working as a scab in the meatpacking strike.  But he trusted the wrong leaders.  When he got into trouble and was taken to jail, the bosses couldn’t really remember him long enough to pay the $300 bail.  He ended up on the street, his wife and child dead, and the rest of the family scattered or dead.  Even cousin Marija, the mover and shaker of the family, was reduced to working as a prostitute.

“The Jungle” pivoted around the injustices surrounding poverty stricken immigrants who had no resources through the government and no help from the well-off.  Socialism in America was a reaction to the wage slavery practiced by the big corporations who paid workers just enough to sustain them and not enough to let them become a threat.  Sinclair, in order to further his own interest in socialism, took the reader from disbelief to outrage at the way the Rudkus family was treated.  He wanted to rouse the population to the plight of the worker.  In doing so he exposed the treachery and brutality of those in the higher echelons of capitalism.

An account of a fictional family enduring such gruesome, gut-wrenching poverty must have touched the consciousness of any citizen who read it.

An essay

By Sara McDermott

There they are, wrapped around the ads and just behind the editorials, bright and varied as life itself – the Sunday comics. Are they a frivolous addition to the morning paper or a mini-reflection of our own need to see ourselves and our foibles in picture and print?

The comics have it all;  the problems of the traditional family in The Family Circus, the travails of Dilbert, that hapless office worker whose career seems to center around confounding his contemporaries, and Zits, the humorous look at teenage angst through the eyes of the teenager himself.

B.C., on the other hand, looks at our modern galaxy through a telescope from prehistoric times and captures the silly dreams and schemes of today’s man, dreamed and schemed instead by cave-men, while the Wizard of Id rules his medieval kingdom with a muddle-headed authority that reveals true comedic genius on the part of the writer.

The wisdom and vulnerability of children are captured to perfection by Charlie Brown and company, and Dennis the Menace proves that the mean little kid next door is alive and well and plotting his next move.

Down the street the Bumsteads innocently maintain a mildly stereotypical view of marriage.  Blondie is still the traditional wife, albeit running a catering service, while Dagwood remains the benevolent forgiving bumbler, napping on the couch and sneaking out for card games with Woodley and the boys.

Animals like Garfield and Snoopy mirror the loving relationships between ourselves and our pets, proving to disbelievers that they do know what we are thinking and, in many ways, they own us instead of the other way around.

Beetle Bailey personifies the earnest and well-meaning foot soldier drowning in army regulations who, never-the-less, manages to foil Sargent Snorkle at every turn, whether it’s grabbing a nap while on kitchen duty or double-talking his way into a week-end pass.

Doonsbury delves the deep societal consequences of superficial politics and pokes mocking fun at the hypocrisy of jaded politicians.

Pluggers reminds the golden-agers that humor is the antidote for the problems that await us all as we enter the twilight years after a life well lived, and The Lockhorns provide comic relief for the eternal battle of the sexes.

The comics are a kaleidoscope of impressions and information in which we can see ourselves and our contemporaries.  We can love them or hate them, but no-one I know totally ignores them, for to paraphrase Pogo, they are us.

The Catholic K-12 Experience

By Sara McDermott

According to the National Catholic Education Association (www.ncea.org) National Catholic Schools Week is the annual celebration of Catholic education.  It starts the last Sunday in January and runs all week.  In 2019 that was January 27th through February 2nd.  Who knew?

The theme for National Catholic Schools Week 2019 is “Catholic Schools Learn, Serve, Lead, Succeed.”  With that in mind I offer my experience at St. Patrick’s K-12 Catholic School.

From the 1930’s to the 1960’s St. Patrick’s was a co-ed institution that introduced me to the world of education, and prepared me for the future.  From the separate entrances for boys and girls to the old playground with no equipment , the Catholic school emphasized strict moral values and a dedication to the business of learning. Recess and playtime ran a distant second to the ABC’s and the daily dose of catechism that kept us straight.  If, today, those things seem too strict, and if today, I even resent some of the narrow rules and regulations imposed by the religion, those 12 years of discipline had a more positive than negative effect on me.  They gave me a sense of the importance of self-reliance and the work that makes it possible.  A conscientious approach to my job made an independent life possible for me;  maybe to some, I am a touch too independent, but I worked for it, I enjoy it, and the lifestyle suits me.

The Catholic schools were both patriotic and devout.  Every day we said the Pledge of Allegiance followed by a prayer and, from about first grade on, catechism was always the first class of the day.  The little catechism book told us of both sin and repentance.  I learned the difference between mortal and venial sin and how to rid myself of both.  By the age of seven we were ready for our first communion.  According to Catholic teaching seven is the age of reason, at which time I was expected to answer for myself in the confessional.  From then on sin weighed heavily on my mind, but there was always the understanding priest ready to whisk away the guilt with a few prayers of penance.  I was an adult before I began to question anything, so confession probably made my sleep easier and my life more peaceful.

At the age of 13 I was confirmed.  It meant extra catechism classes and the taking of a saint’s name.  I chose Catherine because it was my grandmother’s name.  So I’m Sara Michaeleen Catherine McDermott.  Try to get that on a license plate.

The nuns had their dress code to put up with and so did I.  That could be why blue and white uniforms were imposed upon us. More likely it was to teach us that a neat appearance is part of an orderly, disciplined life.  Anyway, for 12 years I wore some combination of navy blue combined with some sort of white blouse.  The boys didn’t have to wear uniforms and it annoyed me, but, since I didn’t embrace feminism until much later, I kept my thoughts to myself.

Daily mass for kids in Catholic school was encouraged but not obligatory.  Sunday mass was a different story.  I don’t remember ever being sick enough to skip mass on Sunday.  I took two years of Latin so, by the time I graduated, I could follow the mass in my missal on the Latin side of the page. (The missal provided both Latin and English when the mass was conducted in Latin).  When someone died and there wasn’t anyone to respond to the Requiem chants, it wasn’t unusual for the priest to call the junior or senior class over to the church to fill in.  I couldn’t sing, but it didn’t matter.  The whole high school only numbered about 150 students so anyone who wanted to could get in to the glee club.  I liked glee club.  It was more fun than physical education.  I hated playing sports.

As for other forms of entertainment there was always one place I could go when I was old enough to get out of the house – basketball games.  The St. Patrick’s Shamrocks afforded me a place to see friends and have fun.

The old gym looked small several years ago at the all St. Pat’s reunion.  For some reason, as I looked out over the old wood floor, I remembered something the players used to do before free throws.  They would make the sign of the cross, as if God would help them make the point.  That is how steeped in religion we were.

Catholic school wasn’t all work and no play.  We had sock hops.  It wasn’t as dumb as it sounds since the reason for dancing in our socks was to preserve the gym floor.

Rock and roll was new, Eisenhower was in the White House and anyone with a high-school education could get a decent job.  At graduation I felt I was armed with a good education and reasonably ethical behavior.  It proved true enough as I held a job for forty years and mostly kept out of trouble.

Growing up a Catholic kid in a Catholic school some 65 years ago endowed me with a decent work ethic, a fair amount of self discipline , and a respect for learning that has resulted in a post-retirement college education.  Most likely I can thank the nuns for the fact that I retain the basic desire to work up to my potential.

An Opinion Column

By Sara McDermott

It stands on E Avenue and 5th Street N.W.  In its day it served as Fire Station #2 for the Cedar Rapids Fire Department.  It has been restored now and houses a business, but its walls certainly must contain a history of the bravery and dedication of its firefighters, some who came to this country seeking a better life, and stayed to contribute time, work and talent to their adopted country.

My grandfather was such a man.  We McDermott kids grew up on the west side of the city, sometimes walking by the building that had been the workplace of our immigrant grandfather.  A big handsome Irishman, Captain John F. McDermott, or Cap as his friends called him, came to America in 1888 when he was 19 years old.  He began a career with the Cedar Rapids Fire Department in 1898 and was promoted to captain in 1918.  During his career he served first at the Riverside hose company and later at Station #2 on E Avenue.   To say that he contributed to the development of his adopted country understates it.  He brought an amazing work ethic with him, living to the age of 90 years and working almost to the end.

I wasn’t born until 1936 so he was always just Grandpa McDermott to me, but he must have cut quite a figure in the earlier years when he and is contemporaries fought local fires with horse drawn carts and no modern water-pumping equipment, firemen sometimes having to simply pour water on large fires to extinguish them.

During Cap’s career one of the worst fires in Cedar Rapids history broke out at the then named American Cereal Mills (now the Quaker Oats plant) in 1905 when an explosion devastated the plant and sent sheet-iron plates, broken loose from the 112 foot elevators, floating into the air.  Charred oatmeal cartons were found as far away as Fairfax, and firemen had to be stationed on flat roofed buildings throughout the city to protect them from sparks and small fires.

Two other large fires tested the mettle of Cedar Rapids firefighters during the early part of the 20th century.  The Clifton Hotel fire in 1903 and the Douglas starch works explosion in 1919.

Guests at the Clifton Hotel were trapped in their rooms as the fire that started in the basement was swept up open stairways.  Seven people died before the fire could be put out.

The Douglas starch works explosion was called the greatest catastrophe in Cedar Rapids history in 1919, taking into account the fact that many more explosions followed the first blast.  Fires burned throughout the ruins for days, requiring firemen to revisit the scene to pour more water on the flames.

Cap didn’t stop contributing when he retired form the fire department.  As a child I remember him working at the Paramount Theater taking tickets at the door to the hall of mirrors.  Later he worked in the kitchen at what is now Mount Mercy University.  He always worked.  He gave of himself.  He gave to us, his grandchildren, and to the betterment of this country.

No-one needs to remind me of how much immigrants in America have contributed to its greatness.  It is not an exaggeration to note that, in reality, this country was built by the people who came here seeking, not only a better life, but with a desire to contribute the means necessary to achieve it.

When I drive by that old fire station on 5th Street it is with deep appreciation for, and thanks to, the people who worked to save and restore it to its present condition.

I think Cap would be proud to say he worked there.

Note:  Facts concerning the fires in the early history of the city were obtained in an undated article from an early newspaper available at the Cedar Rapids History Center.

A memoir.

By Sara McDermott

No ten-year-old spends more time at the neighborhood playground than I do.  It is just a dusty old yard at the public grade school but, to me, it has everything – ping-pong, crafts, a little pool, an old tennis court with no lines painted on it, and a fenced off section with swings and a jungle gym.  I consider the chuty-chute and merry-go-round too babyish, but the swings are still my idea of a good time.

I like it best on a day like this.  It is late in the season, and most of the kids have tired of the place.  The counselors have gone, and the games are all put away.  I can wander around by myself, and on this day I am completely alone.

There is a chill in the air that tells me fall is just a few weeks away, and the wading pool has dirty looking cold water standing in it.

I am slightly bored.  It is almost supper time and I should be heading home, but I  hate to leave so I swing aimlessly, scuffing my feet in the dirt under the swing.

I like to get a swing going by standing on the seat and “pumping up”, so I place my fingers around the thick chain that holds the wooden swing and, like a monkey, pull myself up until I am standing on the seat.  The counselors discourage this when they are here, but they’re gone now and I am free to see how high I can go.  I push a few times to get started and take a better grip on the chains.   I push harder until the swing is swaying easily, and I can see my shoes up in front of me on the forward swing.  I push harder yet, and I go so high I am almost horizontal.  At the very top of the arc I can feel the chains relax slightly, and I hold on tight.  I lay back with my knees flexed to keep myself steady on the flat seat.  I’m swinging wildly now, daring myself to go even higher, but knowing that soon I will have to lower myself to a sitting position to enjoy the breath-taking motion of the swing as it slows back down.

I will give one last push and then sit down.  I brace to give a good push upward when my foot slips on the wooden seat.  The jolt breaks the momentum of the swing and I am falling straight down with both hands still gripping the chains.

In a hideous split second I make the decision to hold on, and I slide all the way down to land in the dirt under the swing.  My fingers are wrapped tightly around the chains as if welded to them.

Tears stand in my eyes as I pry my fingers from the chains.  I want to cool the fiery pain so I soak my hands in the wading pool while I consider my next move.

If I go home now I will have to pretend I’m not hungry at supper time, but if I stay someone will come to look for me.  I decide I can pretend I’m not hungry and drag my self home.

I keep a very low profile for a day or two.  I get by at first by keeping my hands down and not playing outside much.

My mother finally notices that I am keeping my hands to myself more than usual.  I can move my fingers but not well enough to fool her.

The swelling has gone down but I am taken to a doctor anyway.  The harm is done.  A few small bones in both middle fingers are broken, but they have already begun to heal.  The doctor says it is better to leave them alone than to re-break the two fingers.  I hold them up and laugh because they look crooked at the top.  The doctor laughs too, but my mother doesn’t.

My sore hands heal and I forget the pain, but I have two slightly crooked fingers as a life-long reminder of my high-flying afternoon, alone at the playground.