Ida Marie Friedly

11 Sunday May 2014

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Ralph and Mom 2006

It’s Mother’s Day this weekend and Mom is on my mind. Born on April 7, 1915, Mom was one of seven children born to Swedish immigrants, Nels Baxstrom and Anna Johnson, who met in Minnesota and farmed in North Dakota as they raised their family. All seven children – Clarence, Ruth, Vernon, Glenn, Elma, Ida and Emil – at some time attended Belleview schools in Westminster, Colorado, where Ida met Charles Ralph Friedly, my Dad. I am the second oldest of Ralph and Ida’s eight children: Barbara (passed away in 1984), Ralph, Elaine, Robert, Charles, Richard, Glenn and Stanley.

I remember Mom for her love, patience, generosity, kindness, faith and love of music, which all of her children have exhibited in their own lives to a greater or lesser degree. Mom always demonstrated an absolutely unconditional love for each one of us. No matter what mistakes we made, what feelings we hurt, what promises we broke, we could count on Mom’s love. Mom approved of her kids no matter what. It’s not that she was in denial about our shortcomings, but she always had confidence that we could right our wrongs and make good on our mistakes.

Mom had patience as well, maybe to a fault. She put up with an awful lot from many of us, particularly me. It must have saddened her incredibly but I remember once when I was playing Little Richard rather loudly, she lost her temper and asserted that this was likely the kind of music they had in hell. My response was, “Well if this is what they play in hell, that’s where I want to go”. I am sure my siblings would have many stories to tell about Mom’s patience much more illustrative than mine.

Mom was generous with her time, her energies and her talents. She gave unstintingly to not only us, her family, but to others, even when her resources were limited and strained. She worked hard for the church organization to which we belonged, putting in time cooking, canning, sewing, and doing whatever she was asked

Stan and Mom 2006

My memories of Mom are many but some stand out in my mind and deserve mention here:

Mom drinking her coffee in the morning. Like most Swedes , Mom was a dedicated coffee drinker and never missed that morning cup of coffee. The dominant image in my mind is of Mom sitting on the radiator at our Morningside house in the winter, drinking her coffee and trying to keep warm.
Canning fruits and vegetables in the summer, drenched in perspiration with a big copper kettle full of Mason jars of vegetables boiling on the coal fired stove.
The smell of Vicks, which Mom caringly rubbed on our chests when we had a cold or the flu. It was not only the smell, but the loving feeling of her rubbing it on my chest that I remember so well.
Mom lying on her bed with her legs up to relieve the pain of her varicose veins. Mom always had this problem and later had surgery to help alleviate the condition, but being on her feet all day caring for us must have produced unbearable pain.
Sewing dresses for Barb and Elaine on her old Singer pedal sewing machine out of the beautifully designed and printed cotton sacks of Purina chicken feed we used to buy.
Mom’s pride and relief in finally getting an automatic washing machine, a Whirlpool, making it so much easier to keep up with the diaper and clothes washing requirements of this family of ten.
Her additional pride and relief in getting finally a deep freeze, so that the vegetables formerly canned in Mason jars could simply be blanched and frozen in plastic bags, along with the peaches and berries frozen instead of canned.
Mom’s care for us when sick. I remember especially when she had to scrounge the cash to buy penicillin for us when sick with a serious infection. And these expenses came from mostly from her own funds, saved from selling eggs or chickens.
Mom having most of her babies at home – the suspense, the waiting, the presence of Miss Sturma, the midwife, the occasional visit by Dr. Edelberg if there were problems, the preparation and disposition of mysterious materials needed for the birth. I used to think after eight children, that the births were easy for Mom. But they were not as I later found out. She suffered terribly with several, almost died from one.
Her dream, shattered for sure, of Rob and I becoming the new Billy Graham and Tedd Smith – Rob with his prodigious talent on the piano pounding out hymns while I preached hellfire and damnation sermons.
Mom never getting over Barbara’s passing. Barb, her oldest child and our oldest sister died sadly at the age of 46. Any time a child dies before the parent, upsetting the natural order of events, it is a terrible experience for the parent. Mom always became serious, thoughtful, sad and teary when the subject of Barbara’s passing came up.
In later years, picking through shelves and cupboards of different vitamins to find something to correct what ailed you. Mom was a great believer in vitamin and mineral supplements and behaved a bit like a doctor in her selection and administration of each. “Upset stomach? Take this. Headaches? Take some of these. Constipated? Here’s what you need. Aching muscles? This will take care of that problem.” I used to be astonished at the quantity of vitamins and minerals she kept on hand and thought that they might be bad for her. But…she lived a really long life and maybe the vitamins helped.
Mom listening to youngest son Stan on the radio. Stan worked a long time for the church radio station KPOF and did a great job announcing for the station, doing news and music programs. Mom used to always tune in when she knew Stan was on and beam with pride listening to him.
In later years Mom needed the help of an oxygen tank. I can remember entering the house and wondering where Mom was and then by following the oxygen tubes, I would know if she was in her bedroom, the bathroom or maybe in the living room.
Beaming with pride at living in a house her sons built. Indeed, Richard, Glenn and Stan had worked with the church to construct a wonderful modern house for Mom and Dad on the church compound. I can remember the warm feeling I had pulling up in the front of the house on my many visits over the years, knowing the comfort, love and hospitality that awaited me inside.

Richard, Glenn, Mom, Ralph, Stan and Charles 2004

Mom absolutely loved music, all kinds (except maybe Little Richard!). She would be absolutely mesmerized by certain classical pieces, country songs, hymns and folk music. She especially liked to hear George Beverly Shea, the Cliff Barrows choral arrangements and Tedd Smith’s piano on Billy Graham recordings. Another favorite was the rich baritone of Tennessee Ernie Ford. Though gospel music was perhaps her favorite, she used to dance around to Sousa marches and Strauss waltzes. I always thought it tragic that she did not get the opportunity to develop her musical talent completely. I will always remember her playing “Star of the East” on the piano which she did sensitively and artistically. Mom was always open to new music – new artists, new instrumentation and new songs, and I always knew I had a receptive and appreciative listener when I brought something new for her to listen to. She was so proud of any music her children made, especially Robert’s wonderful piano playing. It’s too bad that her passing predated my wonderful collection of music in my iTunes library. I would have loved to present her with a loaded iPod and some speakers to play it aloud on. She would have absolutely loved the variety and the new music in my collection. I can’t say how many times I have thought to myself when hearing something new – wow, Mom would have really loved this song.

Mom had incredible faith – in her God and in each one of her children. She always had hope and faith that Dad would get over his Alzheimer’s Disease. She had faith in each one of her children, that they would be successful and find happiness. Most of all she had a staunch faith in God – reading the Bible and praying regularly. She had faith that she would see Barb and Dad again when she passed away and that the whole family would be together again in heaven someday.

Mom also had a remarkable capacity to forgive. After fights, serious differences of opinion and hot tempers, she always was the first to forgive. She totally forgave me for the difficulties I presented as a teenager and for my marital difficulties later. She completely forgave Dad for serious neglect for much of their marriage and was totally and passionately in love with him during their last years before Alzheimer’s slowly took him away from her.

After collecting random credits for courses taken since the 1940’s Mom was finally presented with a college diploma by Alma White College, the church college, in 1980’s. She accepted it with pride, considering that she had raised eight children and struggled against all kinds of obstacles for all those years.

There were some sad memories also. I had serious arguments with her and hurt her grievously with my quick temper, sharp tongue and profanity. Mom maybe was too lenient in disciplining her children and applied discipline more as guilt and shame than as hard rules and consequences. During serious emotional crises often the best she could do was to say, “Please pray about it”. She gave me too much emotional baggage to carry as a young boy but neglected and lonely from an often absent husband she needed the shared confidence and support. But even considering all this, I am sure she did the best she knew how with all of us and of course had the faith that all would turn out well in the end.

Ida Marie Friedly passed away on October 10, 2006. She was a wonderful mother and I miss her terribly. I am sure my brothers and my sister feel the same way and join me in remembering her on this Mother’s Day 2014.

Mom and sister Elma 2004

My Son and I

08 Thursday May 2014

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Conrad Friedly

On our way back from Vermont to Arizona in early January, we were able to stop and say hello to our son, now living in Gallup, New Mexico, and briefly visit his home, shared with another attorney, and his office, soon to be vacated for a move to a new public defender office building, conveniently placed next to the court and the jail. But we did not get the opportunity during this brief stop to really visit and talk so I looked forward to a weekend trip to Gallup I had planned in early February to really spend some time with Conrad and watch the Super Bowl with him before returning to Scottsdale.

I arrived on Saturday in early afternoon and after having lunch went with him to his new office where he had to do some Saturday work to prepare for the following week. I finally got an opportunity to see his new building and office, say hello to his colleague Jamie and meet his boss Steve. So after visiting for a bit, Conrad started his work and I sat down to stay out of his way and quietly read my book.

During that afternoon while reading my book I was struck by some unusual feelings which I eventually hoped to describe in written words. There was my son, a newly graduated and employed lawyer, sitting at his desk reviewing some cases and making notes for his attention when meeting with clients on Monday. His office was nicely decorated – Navajo rugs, framed diplomas and some pictures on the walls. Two comfortable office chairs served his needs while sitting at his desk or at his work table. Also a large couch along one wall served quite well for me as a comfortable place to read my book while he worked. So there we were – Conrad working and I reading in his Public Defender’s office in Gallup, New Mexico.

At that moment the reasons for the unusual feelings struck me – our situations were completely reversed from the last time we both sat in an office together. The last time we met in an office, it was mine, also adorned with the accoutrements of achievement and power – the framed diplomas, the pictures, the Navajo rugs and my son killing time and waiting for me while I made some last minute calls and made some notes for tomorrow’s duties. And now, retired and powerless, without the slightest bit of influence, I had to sit and kill time by dutifully reading my book while my son worked amid all of his accoutrements of achievement, power and influence.

Why was this experience and realization so powerful? Perhaps because I realized finally that I was done, finished, with the accumulation and exercise of power, that I would not work again, that my office decorations would ever be randomly heaped on my humble desk at home, that my office work would be limited to merely paying bills and filing receipts for tax time, writing some letters to friends and relatives, downloading some new music and the like. Now my son had the real desk, the real office and I did not.

I suppose that this is but one more example of the inexorable passage of time – the old person finishing up the profession and the young man starting out and eventually replacing him. But the realization was traumatic and stunning – comparing my diminished stature with my son’s exalted stature, his power with my powerlessness, my limited future with the long life ahead of him, his prospects and hopes with my sense of finality and resignation.

I knew I had retired and, although it had taken some time, I finally accepted it. I was busy with many activities – going through my books, reading a few, keeping up with NFL games on television, catching up on correspondence, turning up the frequency and the variety in my exercise program, seeing my specialists in Arizona to check the numbers on my health and getting the vehicles serviced and repaired.

But it had not dawned on me that I was truly finished with my professional life until I was there with my son observing his energy and enthusiasm for practicing his chosen profession, wistfully remembering the energy and enthusiasm I had in my first teaching position, my first principalship, and my first superintendency, and realizing that I would never be there again.

This experience was not as much disheartening as revelatory. I finally realized where I was in my life and where my son was in his. At my age I was right where I belonged and at his age he was where he belonged too. I needed simply to finally accept this new state and reordering of affairs.

Miracle on Monomoy

06 Tuesday May 2014

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Monomoy Island

fm06east01

Monomoy Island National Wildlife Refuge is a narrow north-south couple of islands off the southeast corner of Cape Cod, Massachusetts. Established in 1944 as a habitat for migratory birds and later declared a wilderness area, this long stretch of sand and plant life is a very special place, unspoiled by humans and indeed a refuge for a numerous variety of birds. Stretching for about eight miles off the coast the Refuge consists of sand dunes, salt and fresh water marshes, fresh water ponds, and is always expanding and receding with the waves and winds from the seasonal storms that regularly hit the Cape area.

In the summer of 1979 I was invited by my good friend Joseph O’Hara, to join him and two of his brothers, Edward and Richard O’Hara, on a sightseeing boat trip around Monomoy Island. The trip was to consist of transporting his Richard’s outboard powered boat, a 14 footer, to Chatham on southern edge of the “elbow” of Cape Cod where it would be launched, then travel south along the western shore of the islands, around the southern tip, then back on the eastern side north back to the launch site in Chatham.

First, I need to introduce Joseph O’Hara. I first met Joe in 1975 when I was shopping for a good airtight wood-burning stove. At that time with the dramatic rise in heating oil prices, there was a rush of people trying to reduce their heating bills by burning wood, and the preferred wood burning stove was an airtight, which controlled the burning of the wood with a thermostat regulating the air supply to the combustion. The Riteway stove was recommended to me and upon calling and inquiring, the local distributor of this particular brand happened to be one Joseph O’Hara from the town of Carver, Massachusetts. I called and Joe and his wife Joanne came for a visit with informational brochures, advice and recommendations. Upon meeting Joe it truly seemed like I had known him for a long time. I ended up buying a Riteway Model 37 and when it arrived, Joe assisted me in getting it installed. Subsequently Joe and I became fast friends. Both of us into running at that time, I often ran with Joe through the cranberry bogs near his house and after the runs, enjoyed his wife’s grapefruit juice and vodka drinks, which were not only delicious but wonderfully inebriating, especially after a three mile run. My friendship with Joseph O’Hara has continued to the present day, with gaps imposed by changing locations and evolving personal situations.

Typical of Josepth O’Hara, by profession an engineer, the trip was well organized and planned. I was to bring the beer, Joe and his brothers the food plus of course the extra gasoline for the outboard motor needed for this better than twenty mile trip. The trip was to be especially meaningful for Richard because not only was the boat his but for many years he had exhibited a great interest in birds, sea birds in particular and even had a hobby of carving birds from wood. His detailed and perfectly proportioned likenesses included seagulls, sandpipers and ducks. So Richard was really looking forward to this trip.

Everything proceeded according to plan. The day was quite beautiful – sun, perfect temperature and very little wind – the last point very important since our boat was a bit small for the open sea. We successfully backed the trailer into the water at the launch point in Chatham, provisioned the boat and headed out to sea. Again, a blue sea, gentle waves, a glorious sky and abundant sunshine made for a perfect outing. We proceeded toward west side of Monomoy Island, enjoying our first of many beers for the day.

After cruising about halfway across the western shore of the islands, we stopped along the beach and pulled the boat onto the sand so that we could take a walk through the grass and the dunes and enjoy the wildlife and the natural unspoiled beauty of this remarkable place. It was at this time that that Joe discovered that we did not have the extra gasoline with us. His brother Richard had apparently forgotten to put the container in the boat. Joe was enraged and scolded and berated his brother for forgetting it. His brother’s response was one of simple disengagement, responding to Joe’s tirade with, “Wow, what a beautiful day this is. I can’t believe this great day – a perfect day for a boat trip”.

Actually Joe’s concern was well founded. The currents and breezes were favorable for the trip south but returning in a northerly direction would be against this wind and current and would require more fuel. Joe feared actually that we would not have enough fuel to even return to the launch point in Chatham. So this lack of extra fuel meant that we would have to end our journey right there where we had pulled up the boat and we would just have to hope that we had enough fuel to get back.

So making the best of a bad situation, Joe, his brothers and I decided to enjoy the island for a little while before attempting to return and proceeded to walk east across a narrow part of the island, taking some food and drinks with us to enjoy while exploring.

After walking through the dunes and native plants on this beautifully preserved island, we sat for awhile on a driftwood log among the dunes to enjoy the sun, the sky and the breezes and have a go at our food and drinks. It was at about this time that Joe noticed an anomaly on the smooth white surface of the dunes that surrounded us. About twenty feet away the whiteness of a sand dune east of us was spoiled by an incongruous dark angular object. Walking over to this spot he saw the rusted red paint on what looked like the handle of a container. Digging away some of the sand he exposed a rusted rectangular metal gas can. With some effort, Joe removed the main lid, sniffed the contents of the can and was astonished to smell the familiar odor of two cycle engine fuel – gasoline mixed with oil. Finally digging the container free, we saw that the entire five gallon container was full. We all looked at each other in disbelief – how could this be? Right when we needed it, this can of fuel, probably washed off of someone’s boat in a storm and washed up onto the island, appeared as if by magic. We could not help but wonder about all the what-ifs – what if we had gone inland a little more to the south, or a little more to the north? What if we had not gone this far inland – all manner of what-ifs and what-if-we-had-nots. If any of these had occurred, we would not have found this old can, still full of fuel, truly a miracle!

So Joe, his brothers and I finished our lunch and our walk, carrying the can of two-cycle fuel back to the boat, and poured it into the fuel tank, filtering it through a piece of cloth, in case of any bits of rust. Actually the gas was incredibly clean. So we confidently and joyfully cranked up the outboard, resumed our trip, and cruised leisurely all the way around the southern tip of the island, basking in the realization of what had just happened and feeling quite special.

To this day, Joe and I recall this special day and this miraculous event with wonder and pleasure, still thinking why, how and what if, all the while knowing that somehow the special powers or fates that sometimes appear to determine events in life, decided that we should find this old can of fuel to continue our outing and return safely to our cars and our homes.

Nicknames

05 Monday May 2014

Posted by ralphfriedly in Uncategorized

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Nicknames

Sorry, but I have a real problem with nicknames. Supposedly precious and endearing, these poor substitutes for real names are a cop-out of sorts, a demonstration of the inability or unwillingness of the nickname-giver to give an acquaintance, a friend, a son or daughter, the precious gift of the sound of their own names.

My heart shrivels when I hear a young father address his little boy as “bud” or “buddy” when he could be using his name. I feel insulted by salespersons who says “thanks, bud” or “have a good day, pal”, when my name is right in front of them on the credit card. Or if they don’t wish to use my name, then they should address me respectfully as “Sir” and leave “Bud” or “Pal” out of the conversation. Conversely, I feel warmly thrilled when a salesperson, waiter or even the invisible voice on the phone cares enough to address me as “Ralph”. Always, I will ask such individuals their names, so that I might return the favor. “Your name again? Susan? Thank you Susan, you have been really helpful. Susan, have a great day”.

I also disdain the sectional (typically western or southern) habit of posting a notable’s name with his nickname in quotes: Charles “Hos” Hoskins, Maricopa County, Arizona, Treasurer, for example, or Alabama state senator James T. “Jabo” Waggoner, or Texas Justice of the Peace Norris “Stretch” Rideaux. Forget it – if the name is Charles, or James, or Norris then call him Charles or James (Jim will do) or Norris for God’s sake. I should add that this aversion to nicknames does not extend to the common use of “Bill” for William, “Susie” for Susan, “Johnny” for John, “Joe” for Joseph, “Charlie” for Charles, “Jim” for James and so on. These are often “short” or “familiar” versions and are acceptable enough to pass for the real name. But I never question Joe’s preference for Joseph, Bill’s preference for William or Johnny’s preference for John. I know what they mean; that request impresses me and I am eager to oblige.

Nor does this nickname aversion extend to terms of endearment. “Sweetie”, “darling”, and “sweetheart” are all complimentary and are rarely substitutes for real names. They are more, as terms of endearment, of love and respect, and perhaps in some cases even more welcome and sweet to the ear of the listener than the real name.

Also, please spare me the habit of nicknaming a child with the beginning letters of the first name and second names. I have had it with the J.D.’s, the J.T.’s, the A.J.’s, the J.R.’s, the T.J.’s and the weary rest of them. Frankly, parents in love with this initial nicknaming business ought to be required to use it if the child’s given first and middle names are Brendan Stuart, Bernard Oliver, Pauline Ursula, Thomas Blake or Owen David.

I think my aversion to nicknames is firmly based in psychology and preferred social and interpersonal practice. As expressed so well by Dale Carnegie and often quoted, “There is no sweeter sound to any person’s ear than the sound of their own name”. I would add that when a name is used, it signifies to the listener that the speaker cares enough to know and use the name. Using a nickname signifies lack of diligence and caring. And “Sir” and “Madam” are not nicknames but terms of respect. There is a huge difference between being addressed as “Sir” or “Buddy” or “Stretch”.

Personally my aversion to nicknames goes deeper and farther than being respectful, getting along better and feeling good. It is an aversion that goes back to a father who rarely if ever called any of his children by their given names. He had nicknames for every one of his eight children. And this habit of nicknaming extended to everyone in his social circle – students, friends and colleagues. Growing up, I often heard compliments about my father’s penchant for nicknames. When he gave someone a nickname it stuck and he was renowned for this ability. While I largely received such compliments about my father favorably, I nevertheless felt a strong sense of disappointment that this talent of his was so much admired. I would rather have had people marvel at his capacity for love, kindness, generosity or humor than at his ability to apply nicknames so successfully. Furthermore, especially with my father there was always an element of teasing or derision in his nicknames for us and for others, making this habit even more distasteful.

My father’s inability to use given names I think was a sign of an inability to give, which he exhibited in a myriad of other ways as well both with members of his family and others. When a person uses a proper given name, they are giving part of themselves to the listener or recipient. Again, they are caring enough to use the name and, Dale Carnegie was right, it does sound sweet. I was never exactly proud of my name – Ralph – although it was also my father’s name. Too many people name their sheepdogs “Ralph”. But on the other hand, the name is employed sensitively and sweetly in Jean Shepherd’s “A Christmas Story”. Further, I think it was ill advised to choose a name ending with the same consonant sound as the beginning of the last name. I always feel that I need to make very clear to others that my name is not “Ral Friedly”, or “Ralph Riedly” but “Ralph….Friedly”. But I still am thrilled when someone addresses me as “Ralph” or “Ralphie” because that’s my name, that’s the name my parents chose for me and that’s the name I should be called.

But I digress – back to nicknames. When I think of my father’s nicknames for all eight of his children, while perhaps meant to be endearing, they all seemed demeaning. They took away rather than added, diminished rather than enhanced. Recalling these nicknames, saying them again in my mind, is not pleasant and does not make me feel good in any way. Instead, I get a chill in my heart and a feeling of sadness and loss. My Dad’s practice of using nicknames for his children seemed to be not only distancing himself from his children but also a conscious or unconscious attempt to reinforce his vaunted reputation for cleverness and prowess in nicknaming.

So although the reader may disagree, may in fact enjoy his or her nickname and even call his or her little boy “bud” or “pal”, we at least should agree that names are important, that “there is something in a name” and that the sound of one’s name is sweet indeed.