Standing at the window at the tail-end of a very cold December day, looking out across the snow-covered garden, I think, “This is a job for Little Cat Z.”
A vivid pink cloud of brick dust—a byproduct of the rebuilding of our house foundation—has settled across the clean surface of the snow, creating an image straight out of Dr. Seuss’ The Cat in the Hat Comes Back.
I have no VOOM!—the atomic cleaning force activated by the raising of the tiniest cat hat—with which to erase the pink snow spots that, come spring, will be smothering my grass. Nor can I do anything about the obstacle course of tarps and PVC pipes and concrete blocks that make every trip outside with the dog an expedition. But I do see a few silvery flakes sifting past the garage security light. When eradication fails, sometimes concealment serves.
The work we’ve done on the house this year has involved a lot of making things temporarily worse in the hope that in the long run, things will be much better. As a result of this constructive homewrecking, throughout Advent our house had jackhammers instead of jingle bells and muddy boots instead of mistletoe. With the demolition of the foundation immediately preceding the onset of Ohio’s arctic blast, I spent a couple nights babysitting the plumbing. Every hour or so, I wandered through the slumbering house turning faucets on full blast, lest we add busted pipes to a casualty list that already includes the lawn, a great many drywall joints, our driveway pavement, and the back porch.
But on Christmas Eve, we cut the very last tree and headed back home to start the Christmas season anyway, ready or not.
Now that we’ve reached a place in life where we no longer feel obligated to create holiday magic, we’ve also realized that such magic is incredibly easy to conjure, even in the midst of chaos. When the house is lit only by colored lights and candles, we don’t really notice its scars.
Soon after Epiphany, when the tree has been reduced to firewood and the contractors have left and the midwinter thaw has revealed all that the snow has been so benign in concealing, I know I will groan for want of voom. But for now I’m just grateful for the blunting of sharp corners.
“I think it was great at the time when families were united — even though we had slavery — they cared for one another…. Our families were strong, our country had a direction.”
A few months ago, a notorious public figure answered an important question that’s been on the minds of many of us for the past two years: “When was America last ‘great’?” Recently, a lot of writers have focused in on just five words that he inserted parenthetically into his interesting answer: “…even though we had slavery…”
For the most part, these analyses have implied that America could not possibly have been great during that part of its history when slavery was legal because slavery was the opposite of great. This is a defensible argument, if social justice is used as the measure of a civilization’s greatness. But in pressing that point, the writers tend to overlook a bunch of other troubling issues with this answer.
Was there a time when American families were more united than they are now? Was there a time when the country possessed a “direction” that was more easy to define, more unanimously endorsed, than it is now? And was the last time those conditions existed prior to December 18, 1865?
“…the time when families were united…”
Child labor, coverture, immigration, economic inequality—all of these things placed great strain on all sorts of family bonds. But if you’re considering the extent of family unity before emancipation, the obvious place to look is at the families of enslaved people themselves.
By the time the Civil War began, slaves made up more than 12% of the United States population. Family members could be sold and traded, bred like livestock, and impregnated through rape. If an enslaved person gained freedom through escape, manumission or self-purchase, it might be at the cost of losing contact with the rest of the family. So much for family unity.
“…they cared for one another…”
Under this heading, the first idea that springs to mind is the so-called “right of chastisement”—a most peculiar component in “care of the family” as commonly defined in antebellum America. In that patriarchal time, this right belonged exclusively to the male head of the household, and it gave him the right to beat his wife and children in order to keep them in line.
It’s interesting that it was the Supreme Court of Alabama that, in 1871, finally rejected this “ancient privilege,” in the case of Fulgham v. The State of Alabama. No more were husbands free to thrash their wives providing the diameter of the switch was no greater than that of her wedding ring. “The privilege, ancient though it be, to beat her with a stick, to pull her hair, choke her, spit in her face or kick her about the floor, or to inflict upon her like indignities, is not now acknowledged by our law.” In Alabama, at least. North Carolina and Mississippi were a different matter.
And they say nothing good came out of Reconstruction.
“…our families were strong…”
If they were so strong, how come so many people were obsessed with the worrisome possibility of incest?
The icky subject of incest has popped up in literature, law and religion for countless centuries, but it was a special fixation for nineteenth-century Americans. In his book Domestic Intimacies, historian Brian Connolly outlines some of the reasons why.
Increased mobility, as the rapid expansion of the country resulted in families busting up and moving in different directions, combined with slow and difficult communication to make losing touch with close family members a regular occurrence. As a result, people in great numbers began to fret about the possibility of accidental incest. After all, if long-lost siblings, parents, aunts and uncles can disappear from one’s life, swallowed up in the vast American country, then maybe they could also reappear in the most distressing and inconvenient manner.
‘…our country had a direction.”
This is the part of the answer that hurts the most. Because, obviously, the direction we were heading as a nation in mid-19th-century America was toward civil war.
The Civil War didn’t spring up out of nowhere in 1860, and it didn’t have one easy-to-blame cause. For decades, the country had been struggling to define itself, and finally it became apparent that the team could not pull together without busting up the rig.
At the Battle of Front Royal, on May 23, 1862, two regiments from the same state met each other in that village and did their best to kill each other. The Union 1st Maryland Infantry and the Confederate 1st Maryland Infantry faced each other, with Capt. William Goldsborough taking his brother Charles Goldsborough prisoner. The Union—and the union—were big losers.
Personally, I have no nostalgia whatsoever for that time of “direction” and “greatness.” I am astonished anyone does.
“Lord God, Who can’st do all things! The children of a warrior nation lift to Thee their disarmed hands from all the ends of the world…Have pity on our country and on us.”
What force could make a group of people with shared history, values, and economic concerns splinter into shards? Once shattered, is there any magnetic force capable of pulling it back together? And can it ever again form a mass free of the cleavage planes that marked that previous fracturing?
If you sit toward the back on the Joseph side of the Church of the Immaculate Heart of Mary in Cleveland’s Slavic Village during the ten o’clock mass, you can start to answer at least one of those questions. Even if you do not understand the Polish words of the liturgy, you may nevertheless comprehend the devotion. And as you listen to the shushing sibilance of the responses, you can look up and to your right, and get the beginnings of another answer.
The sun shining through the glass there illuminates a sorrowful scene. A mournful woman clad in black clings to the Christ of the Crucifixion, wearing the thorny crown of his own unjust torment. The woman is bound in shackles and a heavy chain, and clutches a prayer book reading “Boże zbaw Polskę.” A flag marked with dates and lashed to a pike has fallen beneath them, and behind them stretches a shadowy city.
Some quick googling after mass:
The woman is Polonia, symbol of a country that had vanished from the map. Her scroll reads, “God save Poland,” and the dates on the fallen flag mark the moments when that land was repeatedly rent by conflict. The archangel, charging knight and white eagle that are linked behind the flag’s central emblem of the Madonna and Child—these are symbols for an independent union that existed only in the prayers and hopes of an oppressed, disappointed and scattered people.
Sometimes it’s easier to focus on one hammer that smote a shattering blow than it is to understand the vice that applied the crushing pressure. So I stick this image of Poland in Chains in the back of my head, and start following Fr. Kolaszewski.
Advent of an Autocrat
All great drama includes great conflict, but the story of schism in Cleveland’s Polish Catholic community seems to have a blood-and-thunder scene in every act. The plot includes a little murder, an abundance of mayhem, at least one dreadful act of God. And under the blazing center stage lights, breathing hard and sweating through his lacy vestments, stands the stout fellow who is either hero or villain, depending on how you look at it.
His name was a fluid thing during and after his life, but I will call him by the one that appears on his naturalization and death certificates. Francis Kolaszewski was a parish priest and a Polish American, though not necessarily in that order. Before founding his own schismatic congregation and getting himself excommunicated from the Roman Catholic church, he was the first resident pastor of Cleveland’s St. Stanislaus parish.
It was he, fresh out of seminary, who oversaw the construction of one of the country’s largest, tallest, and most glorious churches, in one of its poorest ethnic enclaves. It was he who, donning biretta and bearing collection tin, went knocking on the doors of his impoverished flock, or greeted them outside the rolling mill gate on pay day, forcefully reminding them of their obligation to finance all that glory. And, when the flow of donations wasn’t of sufficient volume and velocity, it was he who accumulated a secret debt of staggering proportions.
The bishop found out about that eventually, but not until he had banished Fr. Kolaszewski from Cleveland for prompting one “grave allegation” too many.
If you were raised Catholic in the last half century or so, then you get a sinking feeling anytime you hear the word “allegations” attached to a priest. And there does seem to be a whiff of that particular unpleasant odor around Kolaszewski. What, for instance, do you make of this notice from the Plain Dealer’s “City Jottings”?
Antonia Kosterski tells the court of common pleas that she was damaged November 2, 1887, in an assault made upon her by A. F. Kolaszewski in the sum of $5,000.
Damaged? Assault? By a priest? Surely a victim of that sort of assault wouldn’t have filed a lawsuit so publicly back then. Would she?
Historian Charles Kaczynski, examining correspondence on file in the archives of the Diocese of Cleveland, detected more fetor. In March, 1888, Pittsburgh’s Polish daily paper contacted Bishop Gilmour: We hear that the pastor can’t keep his hands off the ladies in the parish! We hear the good father beats his own aged father! Bishop, do you care to comment?
A few days later, the Plain Dealer “reported” perhaps the strangest piece of satirical fiction in its history: A little devil had been born among the Poles in Newburgh, as the neighborhood around St. Stanislaus was then called.
This is probably a good point to interject: it’s always tricky to rely on daily newspapers for historical fact, particularly when studying events that took place during the heyday of the yellow press, when anti-Catholicism and anti-immigrant sentiment ran rampant.
But it’s also silly to ignore them, especially when one’s interest is primarily in what ordinary people thought was happening around them. Newspapers are most helpful in getting to know public figures who welcomed the attention of the press. Although many of the clergy involved in this story thought it wise to play their cards close to the vest, Fr. Kolaszewski was not among them. When the newspaper didn’t come to him, he went to them.
Since the Plain Dealer piece referred glancingly to an unnamed Newburgh minister, and since there was but one minister tending to the spiritual emergencies of the vast majority of Polish Newburghers, that one promptly took up his pen in reply. This was “a mean story,” he pronounced. If it were true and he, “knowing all the Polish people in the city of Cleveland, knowing every family in particular most perfectly,” then he would have been alerted to the fact of Satan’s incarnation, naturally.
Actually, the editors had sought comment from the priest prior to going to print, and he had suggested the story was probably nothing more than an exaggerated report of his priestly prowess. Recently, “he had been called to exercise [sic] demons from some people who were possessed of them, which he successfully did.” Simple as that.
I assume Bishop Gilmour, scanning the paper over his morning coffee, slapped palm to forehead.
By this time, Kolaszewski had long been a bit of jagged gravel in the bishop’s slipper. Notoriety of any sort was hardly a desirable quality for a humble pastor, and ever since his first big splash preaching against the “riotous assemblies” of striking Polish steelworkers in 1885—when scolding his underpaid parishioners into submission to the Man had earned him a visit from a grateful mayor and police commissioner—Kolaszewski had gloried in the spotlight.
It would only get worse. In November 1890, as chronic intestinal disease and the stress of episcopal duties carried Bishop Gilmour within sight of death’s door, he received a fat envelope containing a 1,900-word, 18-point reply to his order that priests demonstrate their readiness for the pastorate by completing a written exam.
This incredible letter, written by Fr. Kolaszewski in a late-night fever of indignation and contempt, has been interpreted by historians of the Polish Church Wars in a variety of puzzling ways. Fr. Nelson Callahan, the late diocesan archivist who published the letter in its entirety, saw it as the work of “a great man” and evidence of phenomenal pastoral success.
I doubt very much that the bishop saw it that way. While Kolaszewski truthfully summarized the tremendous challenge of church construction, fundraising, and ministerial care of a large, poor, non-English-speaking parish, it’s hard to read this hysterical cataloging of his herculean accomplishments without thinking, “Whose idea was it to build ‘the grandest and most beautiful’ church in the first place? And if you had time to write this massive letter, are you sure you didn’t have time ‘to study a few definitions by heart’?”
But regardless of Kolaszewski’s view of himself as the hardest-working man in the diocese, Gilmour was dealing with an epic to-do list of his own, and it was killing him. He did put the wheels in motion for an investigation into what was going on in Newburgh, calling on Fr. Seraphin Bauer of Fremont to head it up. When Gilmour died a few months later, the whole mess fell into his successor’s cassocked lap.
In that spring of 1891, the Kolaszewski scandal-of-the-month involved some questionable wills and his failure to appear when called before the probate court. In one case, a widow moved to void her late husband’s deathbed will, in which he’d decreed that a third of his benefits be contributed toward the building of a new house for his priest. Since that priest happened to have been present when the dying man made this will—“in a semi-conscious state,” as the Plain Dealer reported—and since that priest kept possession of the will, and then failed to produce it promptly when called upon to do so by the probate court—well, it caused some hubbub.
Subsequent historians have not been able to pinpoint the exact “grave allegation” that pushed Gilmour’s successor, Bishop Ignatius Horstmann, to seek strong remedy to his priest problem. But by April, 1892, things were clearly spinning out of control. Kolaszewski’s assistant, Fr. Francis Motulewski, sent a desperate letter to the bishop, pleading for him to call a halt to the pastor’s heavy-handed fundraising: “Rev. Kolaszewski requires money of everyone coming to confession,” he repined.
Some ten days later, the Plain Dealer heard rumors that the sparks flying in the St. Stanislaus rectory were threatening conflagration amid its already-toxic atmosphere. Kolaszewski denied it: “The story grows as all such stories do, until from a little thing not worth mentioning they have a big story. They look at a mosquito and think they see an elephant.” Since he went on to describe himself dragging his assistant bodily out of a classroom in which the young man was teaching children, I will admit to suspecting that there was something at least vaguely proboscidean to this story.
Bishop Horstmann must have reached a similar conclusion by this time. In desperation, he sought assistance outside the church, from a somewhat shady character whom Cleveland Historical has dubbed “Cleveland’s version of The Donald.”
A few years later, Oliver Mead Stafford would butt heads with progressive mayor Tom L. Johnson over a scheme to illegally tap the city water supply for his factory. But in 1891, his big deal was a real estate development called Pulaski Park. Before it collapsed under the weight of lawsuits, that project made some good money for Stafford, though I don’t know how his business partner faired. The business partner: Fr. Kolaszewski.
It’s hard for me to imagine what sort of help Bishop Horstmann expected to get from Stafford. If it was only the removal of Kolaszewski from his diocese, then he did accomplish that—at least temporarily. But it was going to cost him. In exchange for resignation and transfer to the Diocese of Syracuse, where Kolaszewski had family living, Horstmann agreed to pay the errant priest $3,000, absorb his personal debt, and refund $4,400 that Kolaszewski had supposedly used to repair the rectory—at a time when entire houses in the neighborhood were selling for less than half that price.
Kolaszewski must have found this acceptable, because off he went to Syracuse. But not quietly, and not for long.
First, there was the formal resolution. That bit was rather dignified, I thought.
The document issued to the press following a mass meeting of Kolaszewskians had all the formality and solemn threat of a thrown gauntlet. Crediting him with single-handedly bestowing peace and prosperity upon their parish, they declared that any charges against their pastor emanated from the “evil and corrupt minds” of “a few black sheep among us.” If the priest went, this contingent implied, there’d be hell to pay.
Then came the noise: the clamor of hundreds of angry parishioners, shouting their protest. This time, the “Church Tumult” reported in the Plain Dealer in June, 1892 came from the anti-Kolaszewski contingent, as they watched van-loads of what they took to be church property being hauled out of the rectory—at the same time as a forlorn funeral party waited in vain for a pastor to officiate. Perhaps if Kolaszewski had handed them the inventory he’d prepared a few days earlier, they would have been as impressed as I was by the precision of its alphabetical order and the fastidiousness of its red grosgrain ribbon binding, and they never would have doubted him.
At any rate, eventually, the diocesan chancellor overseeing Kolaszewski’s removal stepped in to bury the departed, reassure irate parishioners, and generally try to calm the wind and waves. But the chaos only increased as the pro-Kolaszewski side mounted a counter-protest. And with their shepherd banished from the fold, the sheep grew fangs.
Next: violence. The story picked up off the national wire by papers in Milwaukee, Denver, and elsewhere claimed that it was mostly women storming the rectory now inhabited by the unlucky replacement pastor, Fr. Benedict Rosinski. Fr. Kolaszewski had itemized 28 brooms among the parochial school furnishings, and these women seemed to be shaking all of them. Fists flew. A gun was brandished “by a brother of the priest’s”—Ignatius Rosinski, not Patrolman Leo Kolaszewski of the CPD. For all the accusations about Kolaszewski that were ricocheting around the diocese and whizzing out across the broader field of Polish America, there was an impressive contingent that loved him fiercely and were prepared to fight for him.
After the nasty skirmish in the rectory yard, these Kolaszewskians accepted strategic retreat, but only briefly. Bishop Horstmann visited the parish and firmly asserted his authority. Rosinski, shaky but stalwart, persevered. And, then, the customary courtroom scene.
Some months before, during the course of the rising unpleasantness, Fr. Kolaszewski had managed to get a number of his own parishioners arrested for conspiracy against him. These parishioners were finally having their own day in court. In the fall of 1892, several suits against Fr. Kolaszewski for malicious prosecution came up on the docket.
The priest was deposed from the relative safety of Syracuse. Included in his deposition were photos, presumably illustrating his injuries. One of the photos described by the press included what sounded like a dramatic shot of the beleaguered pastor with a rope around his neck. Motion to suppress parts of his deposition were sustained, and plaintiffs were awarded small, but perhaps symbolically meaningful judgments. Did they ever collect, do you think?
Now, things get considerably more raucous in the next act, so let’s pause a moment to consider the view of the battlefield from the cathedrae.
In Cleveland sat Bishop Ignatius Horstmann: American-born of German heritage, but a prelate who saw himself as “ultramontane” first and foremost: a firm, fast believer in papal authority. Catholic historian Joseph Lackner has described him as much more Roman than American. This placed him on a collision course with the Americanist Poles he sought to lead.
Meanwhile, the diocese of Syracuse was in the care of the Most Rev. Patrick Ludden. Ludden had been born and raised in County Mayo before immigrating to North America and beginning his ascent through the Roman Catholic hierarchy. He would eventually find his plate loaded with his own spicy helping of Polish factionalism. If you’re interested, start with the priest who defended himself from kidnapping by brandishing a loaded pyx.
Ludden and Horstmann were both staunchly conservative. Between them, the Irish and the German bishops represented the dominant forces in American Catholic hierarchy. By the time their Polish brethren arrived at the table, all the best seats had been taken.
However, in Syracuse as in Cleveland, the needs of the Polish community could not be ignored, at least when Fr. Colley (the Americanized name his family in that city were using) was at the helm. Given the relatively small size of the Syracuse Polish community at that time—estimated at around 120 families—and given Fr. Colley’s notoriety, it says a great deal about his personal magnetism that he was given Bishop Ludden’s endorsement to immediately set to work in founding the first Polish parish in Syracuse. Within six months after being ejected from Cleveland, Fr. Colley was dedicating a new church building. Whatever other accusations might be leveled against this man, he could never be justly accused of laziness.
And then, only a few months after founding that church, he was gone. The local newspapers reported that in March 1894, the Onondaga County Medical Society had learned that the priest had set up a lucrative little practice of his own, providing medical advice and herbal remedies for a variety of female complaints. Since this has sometimes been used as a euphemism for abortion, the potential for scandal is obvious. The medical society told him to cease. He wouldn’t. They told the bishop to rein him in. He refused the bit. They arranged for his arrest, and that’s when he skedaddled.
Practicing medicine without a license: another shady enterprise for Rev. Kolaszewski/Colley. Was this accusation substantiated? I don’t know. If I could get a peek at Collection 3124, Box 1, Volume 5 in the Cornell University rare and manuscript collections, maybe it would shed some light on this chapter in the story.
In their history of Immaculate Heart of Mary, William Radeker and Glenn Sobola say, “Other than a number of unconfirmed reports and scandalous insinuations, there is little reliable information about Rev. Kolaszewski’s activities in Syracuse.” They suggest that the reason for his dismissal on April 1, 1894 was his involvement in the independent church movement.
Personally, I think even unconfirmed reports are of interest when they become part of a pattern that recurs over time and space. But let’s say we give him the benefit of the doubt on this one—what did he do next? When he abruptly departed from Syracuse, he left behind unsettled debts.Two years after Kolaszewski returned to Cleveland, the bitter Syracuse parishioners who had loaned him money to build a church were still trying to collect.
Murder and Mayhem
The year 1894 was so freaking crazy in the Warszawa neighborhood.
Truly. I don’t know how anyone got anything done for about nine months, what with the rock throwing and the head bashing and the pistol shots and all. Geez.
When Fr. Kolaszewski made his abrupt exit from Syracuse, he did not head straight to Cleveland. First he paid a visit to a friend in Detroit, Fr. Dominic Kolasinski.
Now, don’t go following that link very deeply unless you can tolerate the disappointment of learning that our Rust Belt sibling city beat Cleveland to the punch and to the murder and to the priestly excommunication and to pretty much every other scandal and horror that makes this piece of local history so titillating. The factionalism in the Detroit Polish community had done all of that already. In fact, in the couple of days he spent there before his adoring disciples recruited him for a triumphant return to Cleveland, Kolaszewski managed to receive a very thorough how-to briefing on how to spearhead a churchly rebellion.
In the space of a few weeks in May, Kolaszewski’s supporters in Cleveland went from hosting a nice welcome home reception to frantically digging a foundation for their church. In between, the local press was giddy from the spectacle of so much that was worthy of their column inches. Here’s one of my favorite bits:
Tell me: do you hate this reporter just a little bit here, or are you only feeling his smuggery? I’ll get back to this later in the analysis, but let me just warn you: anyone who can’t feel at least a little admiration for the loyalty and respect shown by these people—however misguided—is totally voted out of my club.
But while the local press rejoiced at the return of this colorful character, Bishop Horstmann was less enthused. He promptly issued a letter warning Kolaszewski to cease all priestly functions. Kolaszewski ignored it.
And then, on May 26th, Elizabeth Janicki, seven months pregnant, was found fatally wounded and staggering amongst the weeds in a vacant lot at the intersection of Kenyon and Ackley Streets. Although the entire circumference of her skull had been fractured by some heavy object, she managed to survive long enough to tell that she did not recognize the man who had attacked her late the night before. Her priest, on the other hand, was very ready to share his own theory.
“I will tell you one thing,” he remarked to a reporter. “She was the principal witness in that attempt to kill me with a bomb placed in my carriage just previous to my leaving Cleveland.”
Bomb? What now?
He referred to an earlier and equally grisly episode when he claimed to have been the victim of an assassination attempt, or—more accurately—an alleged assassination plan. He even claimed to know the identity of the bomber who had gotten cold feet. And, conveniently enough, the man he fingered as his would-be assassin had himself been murdered and his body burned in an apparent arson the summer before.
I kind of forgive the coroner and the newspaper reporters and the prosecutor and a large part of the public if they raised a skeptical eyebrow at this testimony. Rev. Kolaszewski definitely had an unusual history of knowing important facts about people who were too dead to contradict him.
There are a couple reasons why I’ve formed the opinion that the priest committed perjury before the coroner—and may have influenced some of his followers to do the same—during that inquest in the summer of 1894. The first involves timing.
He claimed that the bomb plot had been hatched in spring, 1892, and that the man hired to blow him up had visited Mrs. Janicki “more than a year ago”—so probably sometime in early 1893—and confessed. He produced letters and sworn statements during the coroner’s inquest to support these claims. Koscinski was then killed in August 1893.
Why would anyone have waited two years after the unexecuted execution and nearly a year after the execution of the failed executioner before knocking off the long-silent supposed witness?
Then there is the legalia of it all. In looking through documents at Western Reserve Historical Society, I was repeatedly struck by Kolaszewski’s flourish for legalese and the trappings of legal processes. Think back to the deposition he made in the lawsuit against him for malicious prosecution. Remember that stagy-sounding photo of the rope around his neck? Or the red-ribbon-bound alphabetical inventory? Or this addendum to a contract he prepared himself for the purchase of the St. Stanislaus high altar:
This day February 26, 1889
A. F. Kolaszewski, present pastor of St. Stanislaus Church, Cleveland, Ohio, Donate said High Altar to the church, and oblige myself in conscience and before God to pay said $2,325.00 as above named under the following conditions, viz:
I. That if I shall live and be pastor yet of said church at the time when the Altar shall be completed and set-up in the church.
II. If I should die, before said High Altar would be completed and set up in the church, it is my will that said High Altar should be paid from my estate and money I shall leave, as stated and directed in my willand testament, deposited at the Broadway Saving Bank, with Mr. O. M. Stafford, Cleveland O.
III. But if I should resignmy position as pastor of said church, or be removed by my Bishop to some other church, before said High Altar would be completed and set up in the church, I do not and will not oblige myself in conscience and before God to pay for said Altar. The congregation will have to pay it.
A. F. Kolaszewski pastor of St. Stanislaus Church Cleveland, Ohio.
Apart from emphasizing how shaky his position in the diocese was even three years before his removal, this addendum gives some feeling for his apparent belief that if it looks official and sounds legal, it must be true and it shall come to pass—even if it won’t, really. Because heaven knows Pelzer & Bro., the high altar maker, was left waiting for payment pretty much as long as most of the St. Stanislaus contractors.
That penchant for the dramatic seems evident in his early appearance before the coroner in the Janicki case, when he came forth bearing letters and sworn statements regarding the dead woman’s witness to a crime that was never actually perpetrated. After commanding the attention of the coroner for two days of testimony, this evidence is never mentioned in the press again.
However, a few weeks later, detectives brought two girls, Frances Glowna and Pauline Witkowski, to testify. It’s interesting to me that some of the wire stories identify Fr. Kolaszewski as the one who produced these witnesses. I haven’t found local stories that suggest he took them by the hand and trotted them before the authorities, but they did come from among his flock.
Unfortunately for everyone, the girls turned out to exemplify “unreliable witness.”
First, Frances claimed that on the night of May 26, she had been walking with her sister Stella and their friend Mary Sygmunt, when Frances heard three men plotting and saw one, John Lisiecki, attack Eliza Janicki.
Pauline said she had only heard the story the next morning from Frances, and hadn’t witnessed anything herself. That’s pretty much the last we hear from Pauline.
Next, sister Stella was brought to testify that, although she had been walking with Frances and Mary that night, somehow she’d missed the whole murder thing. The next day, Frances had told her about it. However, she did say that John Lisiecki had told her if Frances didn’t stop telling lies about him, he would smash her face, and that their dad, John Glowna, had told Frances to shut up or get whipped.
Then Mary testified: she was sure John Lisiecki had struck Eliza. She had seen it with her own eyes.
But then, the court heard that some of the witnesses had been tampered with, including Frances. She was brought back to testify again, and she admitted she had lied. She hadn’t seen Lisiecki at all. She didn’t explain why she had lied.
When Mary was brought back in, she cried and said she was afraid to testify because her life was in danger. People had threatened to kill her if she talked any more. Once reassured that she’d be protected, both Mary and then Frances went back to their original story: Lisiecki did it.
On Lisiecki’s part, he wasn’t doing much better as a witness. His alibi of spending the evening with friends was pretty unsubstantiated.
Next, Frances submitted an affidavit retracting the retraction of her retraction. If you’ve lost track, that means that now she was willing to swear that she did not see Lisiecki kill Eliza, because she was at home. She had heard the story from Mary, who had asked her to testify with her because she was afraid to do it alone.
Mary also submitted an affidavit saying that, while it was true that she’d convinced Frances to testify with her, she actually hadn’t witnessed the attack either. She’d been fed the story by Joe Pawlowski—an early and ardent Kolaszewski supporter—while she was in his butcher shop, and told that if she didn’t tell that story to the coroner, she’d be locked up. She said she had seen three men at the time and place she’d claimed before, but none of them had a stone and she didn’t recognize any of them.
Then Mrs. Pawlowski the butcher’s wife put in her two cents. She said that when Frances and Mary were in her husband’s shop, they had declared that they had seen Lisiecki attack Eliza, and that Joe had told them they’d better tell the cops.
Well, Coroner Bell had big plans to go see the World’s Fair in Chicago, and this was all getting pretty tiresome. Lisiecki was charged with murder, and his trial began.
After some false starts and a little confused waffling, Mary returned to her original story: she heard the plot, she saw the attack, the attacker was Lisiecki. Yes. He did it. She really meant it this time. Why hadn’t she mentioned witnessing a murder when she got home? Because, well, her parents were busy.
Lisiecki was bound over to a higher court.
In November, Joe the butcher wrote the coroner two letters chockful of hearsay claiming that John Glowna had told him that both of Glowna’s daughters had in fact seen Lisiecki commit the murder, and that their mother and two women from St. Stanislaus had threatened them and forced them to change their story.
John Glowna testified and said that Joe the butcher’s story was a big lie. However, he did say that Mary (but not his own daughters) had claimed to have seen Lisiecki with a stone in his hand, but had not seen him strike Eliza.
Perhaps it’s needless to say that the case against Lisiecki eventually faded away as the dew. I went looking for the coroner’s case file to see if the translated testimony was any clearer than the confused mess of the newspaper summaries, but the file seems to have been misplaced. The case did get reopened with new testimony a couple years later, but by then there were other matters of a more spiritual nature commanding Fr. Kolaszewski’s attention.
The Measure of Devotion
In the summer of 1894, Eliza’s premature infant lay unavenged in its tiny grave in Calvary Cemetery. Having been unable to uncover a burial record for its mama, I went looking for her in the same vicinity. I never found her. Just the barely-noticeable divots in the sod where the cheap grave markers of Cleveland’s poorest Catholics are being gradually swallowed by the earth.
Fr. Kolaszewski, meanwhile, turned to weighty doctrinal matters.
Shortly after the buggy bomb testimony before the coroner, Bishop Horstmann concluded that he’d had enough of these shenanigans and excommunicated the rebel priest, warning his followers that if they didn’t straighten up and come to heel, they’d be next.
Immediately before the testimony, one of the St. Stanislaus contractors filed a lawsuit against Kolaszewski for nonpayment. Then his former business partner’s bank, Broadway Savings and Trust, sued him for more than $20,000 in bad promissory notes. But mere financial concerns were the least of his troubles.
The bigger issue that would face him for most of the next decade was establishing an identity for the new congregation he’d formed. What sort of church was this, exactly?
In writing about the Polish people of Cleveland after World War I, sociologist Charles Coulter would employ one of his favorite adverbs in describing them as “measurably devout.” However, his admiration for this devotion was tempered by some uneasiness with the manner in which it became manifest:
“Although the Pole may quarrel easily with his priest in this country, although he may criticize the method of the church or even establish an Independent Polish Church, go in a body and ask admission to a Protestant denomination, or permit a radical political doctrine to function as his cult, all of which has happened again and again in Cleveland, even in his resentment he can never forget the debt his country owes the church. He remains at heart a Roman Catholic. Indeed until recently so universal was his adherence to the Church of Rome that the Pole was considered a traitor to his people if he was not a Roman Catholic.”
The tangled threads of politics and religion exemplified by the Poland in Chains window at Immaculate Heart of Mary make it challenging to sort out the priorities of the real souls who were that church’s founders.
Certainly the best guide to understanding the founders is the unpublished, thoroughly sourced version of the parish’s centennial history by Radeker and Sobola. But recently, when I enjoyed coffee and history talk with Mr. Sobola at the Red Chimney, even he found himself with a lot of questions remaining after years of study. “I wish I could be transported back,” he said, “I wish I could be there then, so I could know.”
At the beginning, the seceders’ determination to remain Catholic seemed quite clear. From the Marian patronage under which they’d placed themselves to the sacramental structure that remained at their core, there was little about this congregation of protesters that seemed even remotely Protestant. As they continued the construction of a physical church, they also worked to form a communion that extended beyond the borders of Cleveland and Ohio and even beyond Polonia, extending an invitation to “all Catholics who are dissatisfied with the government of the Church of Rome, but not with the faith,” as the New York Times reported.
In fact, as they hurried to pull together a convention of like-minded church people to meet in Cleveland in August—not coincidentally, during the same time that Polish Catholics loyal to Rome had already planned their own convention here—there was an urgency to establish everything that a “real church” would possess. A proper cemetery in which to bury their dead was a required asset, and so Fr. Kolaszewski acquired land a few miles south of Immaculate Heart of Mary and set about finding a bishop to consecrate it.
Surprisingly enough, Bishop Horstmann declined the job. So Kolaszewski called upon the services of an episcopus vagans—a “stray bishop” unattached to any particular church but claiming apostolic succession—to do the honors.
Everyone loves a parade, and Fr. Kolaszewski loved them with great ardor. He had already organized one or two of them in the short time since his return from Syracuse, and the consecration of St. Mary Cemetery by Bishop Joseph Vilatte called for something special. What with the torrential downpour, the mud-caked first communicants, the saber-waving cavalry and the gunshot, special is just what he got.
So dreary was this episode, when resentful Roman Catholics disrupted this procession of rejoicing Independent Catholics in an ugly dust-up at the intersection of Marceline and Deveney Streets, that even the flinty Plain Dealer reporter assigned to cover the day’s pageantry seemed a little touched with pity.
In some ways, though, that Sunday, August 19, 1894 seemed like a pinnacle of parish life for Immaculate Heart of Mary that would not be surpassed for more than a decade. As the “Knights of St. Casimir and St. Michael, with their flat topped hussar helmets and aiguiletted uniforms of yellow and blue and gold, galloped hither and thither” atop their trusty steeds, waving their drawn but surely dull-edged sabers, some observers would have laughed. Some would, and did, throw rocks. But many then and a few now look upon that scene and see a sincerity, a frustrated faith, a demand for dignity, that is far from funny.
‘We Will See Trouble Here Yet’
Even before Vilatte had come to place his blessing on the new church and cemetery, there were signs that the hastily-dug foundation was not sound, metaphorically speaking. The parish organist, abruptly resigning during a dispute with Kolaszewski about the baptism of his child, had presaged, “I tell you, we will see trouble here yet. There will be a fight, not between the two factions, but inside the Kolaszewski faction. You wait.” By Christmas, the wait was over.
After flinging bold words of defiance at his Roman Catholic superiors and drawing leftist allies like notorious newspaperman Alfons Chrostowski to his cause, Kolaszewski abruptly shifted course. He began making overtures to Monsignor Francesco Satolli, the newly-appointed Apostolic delegate to the United States. Naively convinced that he could get back in the good graces of the mother church while still holding onto local control of property and governance, Rev. Kolaszewski assured his congregation that by Gaudete Sunday they’d be rejoicing in reunion with Rome.
Some were furious at his ridiculous vacillation. Some were relieved. But nearly all were probably disappointed when, in response to their priest’s overconfidence, the diocesan chancellor Monsignor Felix Boff dismissed any such concession to the schismatic priest’s demands. He sniffed, “The church will continue to exist when he and his petty schism have passed into oblivion.” This turned out to be a much more accurate prophesy than the one he’d made a few years earlier at the dedication of St. Stanislaus Church, when he had “predicted that eventually Father Kolaszewski would be the happiest man in Cleveland.”
Over the next few years, Kolaszewski’s resources and his energy for rebellion dwindled. At one point, thinking turnabout to be fair play, he announced that he was excommunicating Bishop Horstmann, his rival Rev. Rosinski, and other Roman Catholics who probably yawned and blinked with boredom, if they even went that far in acknowledging his pronouncement. At another point, he became enraged with the local press when they reported what appeared to be merger negotiations between Immaculate Heart of Mary and the Methodist Episcopal Church.
But mostly he got older, more weary, more financially strapped, and, during a serious illness in winter 1897, more concerned about the safety of his immortal soul. But he was not yet so close to eternity that he could relent in his rebellion, and so upon his recovery, he and his church still stood separate and increasingly lonely between Warszawa and Pulaski Park.
He had one more unholy hurrah before he called it a day.
In the spring of 1903, Rev. Kolaszewski threw his weight behind an idea that in better times would have met with universal agreement in Cleveland’s Polonia. He wanted to erect a statue of the universally beloved Polish-Lithuanian patriot and American Revolutionary War hero, Tadeusz Kościuszko—who one local editor called, with sincere admiration but an unfortunate degree of prescience, “one of the most gallant and pathetic figures in the long history of lost causes.”
Within a few weeks after the contentious dedication of the city’s statue of Lajos Kossuth—a project that had been opposed by a groundbreaking coalition of Slavic immigrant groups—a corporation had been formed for the purpose of raising funds and soliciting designs for a Polish monument. American monument mania had reached fever pitch by this point, with whole industries growing to meet the demand for statues, classical columns, obelisks and florid combinations of all of the above.
Unlike the Magyars’ plans to erect a statue of their hero Kossuth in Public Square, the Poles intended to place their Kościuszko in a park, thereby avoiding the problem of elevating one ethnic group above others. Since their subject had commanded respect across ethnic boundaries with such rousing battle cries as “There is a time when you have to sacrifice everything to have everything saved,” resistance was not anticipated.
The objections began to arise when lightning rod Kolaszewski became the public face of the project. Perhaps it was his utter certainty that others found off-putting: declaring an exact date for the monument’s dedication long before any agreements had been made about the sculpture or its placement. Perhaps it was just the bitter memories of the St. Stanislaus/Immaculate Heart of Mary split. Or perhaps it really was, as the press reported and Kolaszewski himself stated, that his enemies feared the erection of a Kościuszko whose angular features had been carved to resemble a certain pudgy-cheeked schismatic priest.
No kidding. At one point in the months-long dispute, when the completed statue reposed in its packing materials at the Carabelli granite works near Lake View Cemetery, the anti-Kolaszewskians circulated the rumor that their hero had been made on the cheap and given the face of Fr. K. The attorney representing the monument committee dismissed this idea as “puerile.” Since, after another long year of arguing, the statue was eventually placed on its pedestal in Wade Park, you can be the judge:
“They say the statue looks like me and will be a monument to my own vanity,” Kolaszewski told a reporter. “I may have a monument someday, but it will not be this one.” Not long ago, I walked around the perimeter of the Cleveland Museum of Art, through the parking garage and—there being no “Keep Out” signs evident—down the service road and up the short scramble to the top of the lonely knoll where the Kościuszko monument stands supervising the construction of the Nord Family Greenway. There I found that the priest, as usual, was only partly right:
If he ever had sacrificed his own vanity, his heroic self-image, his compulsion to play the revolutionary when in truth he lacked the endurance for such a venture, maybe he would have saved everything. Maybe he could have brought his people together instead of busting them apart.
In the summer of 1908, fifty thousand people crammed the streets around Holy Name Cathedral in Chicago to witness the consecration of the Most Reverend Paul Peter Rhode, the first Polish bishop of the Roman Catholic Church in America. Three weeks later, the bishop was on a train bound for Cleveland, to dedicate St. Hyacinth Church…and to see what he could do about locating some sheep.
What did it feel like to be on the outside looking in at that joyful reception, as the bishop’s entourage was greeted with bouquets of flowers, music and the radiant faces of thousands of Polish Clevelanders? Did it sting to know that your unwilling arch nemesis, Fr. Benedict Rosinski, had shared in the liturgy and the banquet as a Polish congregation that you didn’t found was dedicated by the young and handsome bishop? Was this pain the beginning of penance?
When the pomp and pageantry of the St. Hyacinth dedication had quieted, and before Bishop Rhode left the city, he took a moment at St. Stanislaus to invite the last remaining members of Immaculate Heart of Mary’s dwindling congregation to rejoin the fold.
The vote was prompt and unanimous. Rev. Kolaszewski—humbled at last—submitted his own request for reconciliation. While Monsignor Boff lifted the excommunication from the formerly-schismatic congregation, the Pope alone had the power to deal with the priest.
The end was not entirely a quiet one. Having recently caused the literal destruction of his wood frame church by leaving a thurible to catch fire under the altar, Rev. Kolaszewski also lived long enough to see the front page photos following the April 21, 1909 tornado that brought down the glorious steeples of the first church he’d ever built. Although the church would soon be repaired, it would never again reach so high into the heavens.
He went into retreat in the home of his sister, Anna Barzen. There, in a modest house at the corner of Denison and West 42nd Street, he died of endocarditis and nephritis on December 2, 1910.
There’s a lot about Fr. Kolaszewski that I have never figured out. Actually, I don’t even feel confident about his name. Some sources say the surname was originally “Rademacher”—German for “wheelwright.” It’s an apt name for a man whose own machinations often seemed as mystifying and subject to conflicting interpretations as Ezekiel’s wheels. But though “Rademacher” does not appear in the census, naturalization records or death certificate, two standard reference works on Polish Americans declare this as a fact.
Of course, both of those sources have also been harshly criticized by reviewers for their bias. The earliest use of the Rademacher name that I’ve been able to actually document was in 1894, the year of the schism, by Clement Bielinski. In a virulent anti-Kolaszewski speech, he accused the priest of fraud and deception, implying that he’d been hiding his Bismarckian secret identity under an alias.
While the history writers of his own era tended to be mainstream, conservative, and therefore anti-Kolaszewski, more recent local history is sometimes more forgiving than wholly forthright. By 1990, when Fr. Kolaszewski was mentioned in a nostalgic Plain Dealer article, he was described as “a dynamic visionary” rather than a firebrand and fomenter.
Similarly gentle, some histories refer to Fr. Kolaszewski having been laid to rest among brother priests in Calvary Cemetery, but a careful look at headstones suggests no such fraternal landscape. Spiraling down the hill on whose crown he is buried, I found no nearby stones with a deathdate before his own, except probably his illegible nextdoor neighbor. A cynical viewer might look upon the headless sheep on that stone and be reminded of his earthly flock.
I did run into the 1912 monument for Monsingor Boff. This was the diocesan Vicar General who, after decades of strife, finally un-excommunicated the remnants of Kolaszewski’s parishioners once the dying priest—ailing, financially strapped, and increasingly abandoned by his parishioners—finally abandoned his own defiant denial of authority.
Boff’s stern stone eyes gaze out past the wayward cleric’s humble marker, roughly in the direction of that other cemetery, St. Mary’s, where Kolaszewski had buried his loyal followers who had the bad luck, bad timing or bad judgment to die—from the mainstream RC point of view, at least—unshriven.
‘The Judicious Cannot Help But Grieve’
He used nationalist fervor as a wedge, prompting neighbors to hurl insults, accusations and rocks at each other.
As his followers humbled themselves, he wallowed in their adulation.
He aggressively accused others of lying while growing his own Pinocchio nose until it sprouted leaves.
While receiving infinite, unquestioning loyalty, he did not reciprocate. Instead, he flip-flopped on important issues, turning allies into adversaries.
While denigrating and spurning the press, he simultaneously craved their constant attention.
And no matter what else might happen in his little world—even someone else’s tragic death—everything, everything had to be about him.
But as he approached his own last days, he was finally convulsed with either remorse or fear. He abandoned all of his positions, begged forgiveness, and accepted the authority that he had for years so brazenly defied.
There are some hints in his last will and testament that suggest confused contrition. First, after assigning some small bequests, including one drawn from funds he expected to be returned to his estate by the Congregation of the Immaculate Heart of Mary, he assigned to Bishop Kaminski of Buffalo the task of selling his books.
Kolaszewski had concelebrated the ordination of Stephen Kaminski to the diaconate during the tumultuous convention of August 1894. His protégé gained even more national notoriety than Kolaszewski himself when, as a priest, he loaded his altar with firearms and started shooting. If you happen to have held onto a lot of sociopolitical contraband, this seems like a pretty good person to put in charge of its redistribution.
In Kolaszewski’s final arrangements, all traces of Polish heritage seemed erased. Having been buried from the German parish of St. Boniface, he requested that fifty masses for his soul be said at the German church of St. Joseph on Woodland Avenue. He even named as executor of his estate a German classmate from his seminary days, Rev. Nicholas Pfeil of the German parish of St. Peter. Fr. Pfeil declined to serve. His followers having long been taunted with the derogatory nickname “Fritz,” it was almost as if Kolaszewski had ultimately embraced non-Polishness.
So, in the compilation of this longest-of-all long blog posts, what did I learn?
My mother’s people were German Catholics, and my local parish is Irish. Until a friend offered to show me around Immaculate Heart of Mary a few months ago, I’d been ignorant about the pain with which Polish Cleveland had been birthed.
I’d looked from high places across the hundreds of spires rising up into the sky over Cleveland, and felt a little sorry that there had ever been a need to build two churches less than a block apart because the ethnic communities could not bring themselves to worship together. But I had never really realized, until thinking about the image of Poland in Chains, what it meant to be a Polish Catholic in America.
As I got to know this community a little better, I did what I generally do during such projects: I tried to read what the people I was trying to understand would have read. Charles Coulter had suggested that the most popular fiction writer among the Polish patrons frequenting the Cleveland Public Library was Nobel laureate Henryk Sienkiewicz. So I read his novel After Bread, which describes the hardships of Polish immigrants to America:
A Mazur, when he has a club in his hand, and especially when he has other Mazurs at his back, will not be driven from his path, and to those who would molest him he is ready to exclaim: “Have a care; we are not fools; dare not to touch us, or we will lame you.” It is known that the Mazurs like to band together, to settle in bodies, so that one can run with his club in his hand to help another.
They were without guidance, power to order their affairs, or smooth their misunderstandings. They had not the experience to know how to go to work. A body of Germans would have combined together to clear the woods, build houses, and then would have measured off to each man his portion; but the Mazur, at the beginning, wanted to settle on his own land, to build his own house, and to cut down trees on his own lot. Every one wanted also to get land near the central glade, where the trees were few and water the nearest. Thereupon arose contentions, which gradually grew…
They came from a country that had disappeared from the map of Europe for over a century. They were imported in cattle boats, tricked into accepting low wages for dangerous and exhausting work, despised by the ethnic communities that had preceded them and who saw them as scabs, and, as church communities, deprived of rights to property and self-governance that they believed would come with the American promise of freedom. Having been shackled by their oppressors in their captive homeland, they felt shackled by their church here.
I am not Polish American, so I don’t know if someone from that community would react as I did upon reading the following snip from a 1909 copy of the Fortnightly Review. Arguing that some of history’s sensitive or controversial documents and artifacts ought never to be displayed for public scrutiny, the writer proclaims:
“In my experience the Polish people are very prone to mind too much the business of their parish priests and too little their own; and I think history bears me out on this point; to spread before them…the faults of the clergy, their little intrigues among themselves, their want of obedience to their superiors, etc., etc., must tend to aggravate a condition of affairs over which the judicious cannot but grieve.”
I reject that whole thing. How much more grief is caused when, for want of a little probing, we look up at the image of the woman in shackles and can’t recall just why she’s weeping?
We didn’t choose to spend Thanksgiving in Middletown, Ohio, merely because I’d recently read Hillbilly Elegy by J. D. Vance. But when we decided to travel to our college girl instead of asking her to make the second 4.5-hour trip from Cincinnati to Cleveland this month, it did enter our minds that maybe Middletown could use a little of our holiday spending.
I also didn’t seek out the story that I received from the breakfast attendant at the hotel. This is just a thing that happens to me. I can literally walk down the street, nod good afternoon to someone, and the next thing I know, I’ve heard about the spouse who they stopped loving before the accident, but who they now feel chained to by a crippling honor. Fortunately, the breakfast attendant’s story was a lot more uplifting than that one.
The image that stuck with me were the tied shoes in bed. If I understood her correctly, those were included in the early morning ritual that she follows nearly every school day.
Her family, she said, was pretty dysfunctional. That’ll happen after a couple of generations of crime and drugs and despair. But she felt like things were heading in a better direction now. Kin who were lifting the family average had custody of the children while those facing harder times tried to get their acts together.
That’s how she came to find herself with two school-aged children at home, just when the nest had started to feel less filled with the squawking cries of the unfledged. She was glad to have them, wanted to help, and she knew she could manage it if she just got a good system. The tied shoes were part of her current strategy.
See, her job demands early rising. Her employer had found a way to help with that part: she gets a wake up call at 4:30 from the hotel’s switchboard. They’re glad to do this. Sometimes that caller, working almost alone in the silence of a slumbering hotel, seems eager to chat. But she’s got to cut it short. She’s got three people to dress.
At eight and ten, you’d think that the grandkids would be able to dress themselves, but that isn’t the sort of early training they got. With one parent dead and the other incapacitated, learning skills like buttoning, tying, tucking and zipping would have been as likely as learning cello and Japanese. They’ve only been with their grandma for a few months, and it takes pretty much as long to learn life skills later as it does sooner.
So at 4:30 on school days, the breakfast attendant gets them out of bed, hoping that the rest they’ve received so far has been mostly adequate to their needs. She leads them quietly through face-washing, tooth-brushing, dressing in school clothes and tying shoes, hoping that they can do these things while remaining mostly unconscious in the pre-dawn darkness. Once they’re dressed for their day, they lay back down for a few more hours of sleep.
Then she leaves for work, hoping that her adult son really will wake in time to get the school kids up for the second time. She crosses her fingers that the 10-year-old really will watch out the front window for their ride while he eats his cereal or toast. She prays that they will both attend to school work, learn a lot, stay away from drugs, find work they love, live happily to old age.
I assume that this hopefulness fills much of her waking thought. That is undoubtedly why, given a nearby bucket with a little room left to hold them, she poured off some of her excess thoughts on Thanksgiving morning.
The next story I heard in the breakfast room was told by an older gentleman, and it was about how this holiday is ruined now that they refuse to stand for the flag. That one ends tragically.
I think most people have about five big chapters that form the core of their life story. For me, the story of how my education was funded is probably the one I repeat most frequently. This seems like a good place in my bloglife to write it down.
As a child, I did not use the term “poverty.” My family lived in the crotch between the railroad tracks and a black-smoke-belching machine factory, in a little house where eight kids shared two and a half bedrooms and one bathroom while the parents slept in an ex-dining room with no doors. I think we assumed this was how most people lived.
My father worked full-time as a maintenance electrician in a chemical factory, part-time as a hardware clerk, as-needed as a home handyman and amateur auto mechanic, Sunday mornings as a eucharistic minister, and all the nights and weekends that he could as a volunteer EMT.
He paid our bills, but he did not save for a rainy day, retirement, or anybody’s education. Before each of us got a driver’s license, we were required to buy our own car and pay for our own insurance. So the Turner kids worked concessions at the state park, labored in the bird seed factory, mowed lawns, babysat, baked pizzas, rewired a house, washed dishes in the nursing home, cleaned houses and—best of all—shelved books at the public library. And we paid our bills too.
But we also didn’t save, at least not much. So although I was the seventh and—as my father lovingly admitted—“not the smartest of the bunch” (anyone who has met my siblings knows that this was realism, not insult), I was the first to earn a degree. It was not a practical expenditure for most of the skilled people in my family.
My own plan for paying for college had involved moving in with my sister and attending a branch campus of Ohio University part-time while looking for a job. That plan got thrown out the window shortly before I graduated, when the vice principal and the guidance counselor brought me into the school office to tell me that I needed to get a better plan.
I had received a scholarship that exceeded in value the tuition charged at that branch campus, and it would be an embarrassment to the school if the winner of that scholarship wasted the money. So, because the vice principal was friends with the admissions director at Hiram College, and because a local couple in my home town sponsored a scholarship at Hiram for graduates of my school, they had decided that I needed to don the scarlet and sky blue and join the fighting Terriers. I did.
It meant going into maximum debt, which I’d hoped to avoid. It meant four years of regular, humiliating visits to the financial aid office, explaining over and over that although government formulas included a “parent contribution,” there was no such thing. It meant begging for more work-study hours, a flexible payment schedule, eating spaghetti every single day of the summer while I worked on campus and house-sat for professors to save room and board expenses. It wasn’t bad, really. I love spaghetti.
During winter breaks, when I’d visit the elderly couple who were footing a large chunk of my bill, my faith in the generosity of the affluent would be bolstered, as would my commitment to not letting them down. In my junior year, when I had the chance to study in Europe and see places I’d dreamed about ever since I’d learned to read, somehow my scholarship magically expanded and my parent contribution miraculously materialized to cover the four months of my missed wages.
It all worked so well, I decided to try graduate school.
The first grad school gave me a full fellowship, which was damn nice of them. Without tuition expenses, my two part-time jobs combined with my partner’s full-time work for the government let us live pretty well in the very-expensive nation’s capital. We quietly violated our lease by providing free housing for everyone we could think of in our one-bedroom apartment, because we loved that beautiful city so much and wanted everyone we knew to experience its wonders.
The second grad school waived my tuition and offered me a teaching assistantship. During orientation, the program coordinator said, “I hope you all are doing this for love and not for money, because there ain’t no money to be had in the humanities.” And I did love exactly 50% of my experience: the teaching part. Have you ever stood in front of a freshman composition course at a large land grant university, looked out at the faces of the international students and the farm kids in baseball caps and the hung-over sorority girls, and realized that you were speaking to America? Or at least that fraction of America who had combined means, motive, and opportunity to get to college?
However, the less practical half of my doctoral program experience—I didn’t love that. One day my boss said, “You’ve been working in libraries since you were in junior high. Didn’t it ever occur to you to go to library school?” To which I replied, “There is a thing called library school? What is this library school thing?” And thus: the third grad school.
There, I managed to get a rare graduate assistantship, though I also paid every penny of my tuition. Or rather, my partner paid up front for my 11-month sprint, and I earned it back afterwards, working for less than $13 an hour in what Forbes once described as “the worst return on investment” of all graduate degrees. (It’s dropped below criminal justice now. What does that mean, I wonder?) Fortunately, I had done it for love, and not for money.
A few years later, we retired my student loan debt from college, started saving for our children’s education, and never stopped being grateful for the people and the programs that made it possible for me to study.
Gratitude was the g-word I have always associated with my education funding. This week, though, I have wondered: was I supposed to feel guilt?
Yesterday, the House of Representatives passed a bill that, if sustained by the Senate, will make it impossible for poor kids to indulge their selfish desires for graduate school. In order to fund big tax cuts for corporations, Congress seems to need to smack down us freeloaders.
Unlike graduate students in the hard sciences, I cannot claim that my years of study ever led to a life being saved, or a marketable product being developed, or a structure being built to stand long after I’m dead. In fact, some of those siblings who could not swing post-secondary education have done much more in those areas than I could ever do.
So how do I defend the drain I must have been on the taxpayers of our nation?
While I love telling the story of the wonderful people who helped me—the realistic dad, the kind industrialist and his wife who were my benefactors, the pushy vice principal and tolerant financial aid officer, the hospitable professors, the husband who went job hunting every time I got accepted into a new program—it’s a lot more uncomfortable trying to justify the small number of tax breaks for which I qualified.
When I was young, there was still a corner of the American mind that indulged learning for learning’s sake, but I have never been all that comfortable with this concept. Although that strange happenstance of the scholarships led me to attend a liberal arts college, and the happy availability of a fellowship resulted in three years of interdisciplinary study in medieval liturgical music, dead languages, Thomistic philosophy, and other things that have no known market, I assumed that the rest of my adult life was supposed to be spent returning favors. I have tried to do that.
I have not, however, counseled my own children to pursue the kind of education I received. As the planet warmed and the political climate chilled, I advised them to seek a societal niche that even the average 21st-century voter would agree needed filling.
My daughter, whose hard work and service during high school resulted in her own taxpayer-funded college experience, believes that the world needs more foot soldiers in the good fight against public health crises. I think most taxpayers and even most congressional representatives would probably agree. To make her contribution, she needs to complete a graduate program.
She will clear the hurdles that Congress seeks to place in front of her, because our family is lucky. But most of the kids growing up in our neighborhood, or in the neighborhood where I grew up—they will not. I wonder which niche those embryonic inventors, engineers, doctors, and librarians will fill instead.
My 99-year-old great-aunt Sis had already outlived everyone in her own generation of our family. With the death of her only child on Sunday, she has now outlived the next.
“It’s mighty lonesome,” she observed to us Wednesday afternoon when my sister and I went to offer condolences. When the life explosion is of such magnitude, even the normally voluble resort to understatement.
The lack of a word like “orphan” or “widow” to identify a parent who has lost a child has been frequently remarked upon, with one English professor suggesting that the Sanskit word “vilomah” might do the trick. It means “against the natural order,” and might be used like this: “Sis couldn’t keep her thinking straight today because she has been recently vilomahed.” There’s a certain onomatopoeia there, I think: the tearing of the v, the sigh of the ah.
In Julian Barnes’ Man Booker Prize-winning novel The Sense of an Ending, narrator Tony Webster observes, “Those little age differentials, so crucial and so gross when we are young, erode. We end up all belonging to the same category, that of the non-young.” In the context of his story, I’m sure Barnes meant the more common meaning of “differentials”: relatively small, even infinitesimal differences. A very youthful observer, distinguishing not even the slight differential between the white of Sis’s thinning hair and the grey of her 78-year-old son, might classify them both merely as “old.”
But the more mechanical meaning of the word could also be said to describe something that erodes with age. In this sense, “differential” refers to the gears that help vehicles to drive around corners smoothly and safely by allowing inner and outer wheels to rotate at different speeds.
When she was orphaned in 1979, and even when she was widowed four years before that, Sis maintained traction through those turns. She worked as a school janitor to support herself, she sold quilts and garden produce from a stand in her front yard, and when she got lonesome, she hopped in the car and drove hundreds of miles, negotiating Chicagoland traffic, to see her boy.
But no matter how independent you’ve always been, a few falls, a few broken bones that refuse to mend efficiently, and the best son in the world will feel the need to take the wheel. In her subsequent years as a nursing home resident, she’s missed the experiences that once kept the gears lubricated. These days, she’s getting some metal-to-metal contact.
It’s hard to find words to describe—much less comfort—the grief of the lonesome vilomah, but my sister, pulling up the obituary on her phone, finally hit upon some that proved helpful. As she read aloud the description of an active life filled with hard work, service and faith, Sis nodded along, her thinking quite straight again. “He was a good boy,” she concluded. “A good son.”
Sometimes it takes some buffing to find the sparkle in a life story, and sometimes the tarnish goes all the way through.
The internet is already so filled with unpleasantness, it probably doesn’t need Arthur to add to it. But I’ve had a clipping from the Norwalk Evening Herald staring at me from my desktop for months now, as if it was trying to tell me something that I needed to know. I reckoned it was time to figure out what that something might be. My digital clipping is a little faded, but here’s how the last act of his tragedy was reported:
Arthur Hartzler died Thursday morning at the Sandusky county hospital, his death being due to a general breaking down and kidney trouble aggravated by strong drinking.
Hartzler came to Fremont some time ago and eked out a miserable existence playing his zither in local saloons and resorts. He was a talented musician and a young man with a splendid education who had evidently seen better days.
He was a printer by trade.
There is a pathetic story in connection with Hartzler’s career and he frequently related the details to his friends here. Hartzler, it is said, was a member of a prominent Fort Wayne, Ind., family and at one time was married and had a happy home. According to his statements another man broke up his home and Hartzler took his musical instruments and also took to drink and has since been a broken-hearted man who drowned his sorrows with strong drink and toured from place to place.
As a musician he had but few equals and it was also said Hartzler had composed a number of popular songs of the day including “My Lady Lou” and others. He was about 31 years of age. The man had been drinking very hard of late and Wednesday was removed to the hospital where he died Thursday morning.
—Norwalk Evening Herald, April 14, 1906
You probably noticed that there were a lot of research starting points in that death notice. For a man who drank himself to death after a short life of very little distinction, Arthur Hartzler left a lot of footprints along the path between his desolate infancy and his miserable death. And because I wanted to know how he came to that tragic end, I started following them.
About a year before his death, he had been described as “a physical wreck”—the result of alcoholism. After he tried to borrow a revolver to shoot himself, “police locked him up for safe keeping.”
The place they locked him up was the Erie County Infirmary rather than the jail. This institution was part of that all-but-forgotten era of American greatness when the indigent were still referred to as “less fortunate.” In the 1905 rural mail directory, the infirmary was listed as Arthur’s residence.
Only a few years earlier, in the summer of 1902, he had been included on a list of fun-loving fellows on a pleasure cruise to the Quinnebog Fishing Club on Old Hen Island in Lake Erie. I imagined the fishing buddies aboard the freshly-repainted double-decker passenger steamer Ogontz—smoking their cigars and clapping each other on the shoulder and singing naughty tunes accompanied by Arthur’s jolly zither.
How did he get from that sunny afternoon to a residence in the infirmary? Apparently, I was going to have to go all the way back to the beginning.
He was born in 1876 in Twin Lakes, Indiana—an area whose claim to fame is that it had been the starting point of a horrible Indian removal march.
He was the youngest child of an Evangelical minister and his wife. His father, Adam, was a big, strapping man who had begun his career as a blacksmith. But after answering the call to the ministry, Adam began traveling a wide circuit. His wife and children were left for weeks and months to fend for themselves, often with very little food or fuel. They were often sick.
When Arthur was just two years old, his father died in the harness, the fervor of his final sermon still hot on his lips. Now entirely destitute, the mother and children made their way to Fort Wayne, where his mother may have had family.
Fort Wayne would have been the setting for most of the better days that Arthur may have ever seen. In the pages of the local papers and directories, we see him join social clubs, enjoy a few months’ jaunt to the big city of St. Louis, land a job as a press feeder for the newspaper. He seemed like a young man with ambitions.
In the Fort Wayne Weekly Gazette, November 12, 1896, Arthur was listed as a guest at a McKinley-themed birthday party for which a featured decoration was a potato suspended from the ceiling and stuck through with little flags and yellow chrysanthemums. The hopeful image of that festive tuber was the zenith of Arthur’s story, as revealed in the scattered fragments I was able to pull together. Subsequent fishing excursions notwithstanding, it was mostly downhill thereafter.
By this time, 20-year-old “Professor Hartzler,” in the spare time allowed by his press feeder job, had gained something of a name for himself in Fort Wayne’s middle class society, as a fine musician and music teacher. He was a featured performer at the Saengerbund. He had sent off his most promising composition, “My Lady Lou,” to try to get it published. Music cataloging has always been one of the unrevealed secrets of the universe to me. While I found a couple popular songs bearing that name, I never found him identified as the composer. Knowing Arthur’s later luck, maybe he ended up the victim of plagiarism.
I never found any trace of either the once-happy marriage or the homewrecker that he later used to explain why he turned to drink. He always appears in city directories as a typical working bachelor, living in a modest boarding house. Instead, I surmised that his story of a failed marriage was something he may have invented as a substitute for a much more horrible episode. While on a bender, on June 24, 1901, he caused the death of a toddler.
I really hadn’t thought much about the fact that drunk driving was an issue even when the vehicle was powered by a completely sober horse. But as Lelia Leibacher rode into town in the arms of her mother, with her big brother driving a wagon loaded with the family’s berry harvest, Arthur and a drinking buddy set out on a fatal joy ride in a rented rig. A few minutes later, both vehicles were wrecked, Arthur was fleeing the scene, and the Leibachers’ little girl was dead of a fractured skull.
Little Lelia. There she is, in the 1900 Census:
And in the 1910 Census—well, there she’s not. Her mother’s only daughter, a memory.
What was the penalty in 1901 for causing the death of a child by drunk driving? I knew that Arthur was indicted and brought before mayor’s court in Sandusky. But before I could decide whether I was up for the challenge of digging through court records, I looked back at my own notes. That fishing club expedition? It was in 1902, only a year after the accident. Whatever legal price he paid, if any, he didn’t pay it for long.
A possible explanation for the brevity of his debt-paying to society came near the end of the list of fun-loving fellows aboard the Ogontz: “Mayor M.”
John Molter, the mayor of Sandusky from 1901 to 1910, was a virile and athletic gent whose other job happened to be booze wholesaler. Exactly the sort of guy Arthur might have entertained in the saloons.
In December, 1902, Arthur’s on the guest list again: this time, at the going-away party for saloonkeeper George Brengartner, who was departing for Mexico in a futile attempt to recover his health. By way of bon voyage, the guests presented him with a diamond ring. So Arthur evidently had friends in fairly high places.
Of course, I can’t be sure that Arthur’s friends influenced the grand jury that convened in the last week of September, 1901. While finding true bills in cases of pocket picking and petty larceny, Arthur’s case, according to the Sandusky Daily Star, was just “ignored” because “Hartzer [sic] was so clearly the victim of unfortunate circumstances.” All I can say is that while Arthur played his zither for Sandusky’s fun-loving sportsmen, the Leibacher family sold berries to supplement a stevedore’s meager wages. Draw your own conclusions.
So what have I learned here?
Well, yes, that. But I think I sort of knew that already.
For me, the takeaway from this tragic story was not really the suspicion that Arthur might have been spared imprisonment for his crime, or even the realization that, in a city of fewer than 20,000 people, Leila’s death had already vanished from society’s memory after only five years. It is even more interesting to me that my own mind turned so sharply in the direction of cynically expecting injustice.
On the day after the accident, the Sandusky Register ran a story that ended like this:
George Leibacher, the husband and father, works on the docks at Huron. He was summoned and arrived late in the afternoon. He was much wrought up, and to a Register man said: “Those fellows must not be released. I’ll prosecute them. My little baby was killed, and they must settle.”
Sometimes it seems like our culture’s quest for vengeance is insatiable. We want wrongdoers to pay and keep paying; our thirst seems never slaked. Even the execution of the guilty often fails to suffice. How curious, then, to envision this poor, grieving father, whose first response seems so strikingly moderate.
Witnesses at the scene of the accident drove stakes marking the location of the rigs, showing that Mrs. Leibacher was on the right hand side.
And maybe that was the only comfort the Leibachers ever had or ever really expected: to know that, whichever direction the justice system turned, at least they were in the right.
I cannot say for certain, but I’ve always thought that the shiny bolt in the terrazzo floor of the foyer at Severance Hall made my kids more open-minded.
I do recall for sure that it was the first thing my son reported after school on the day of his first field trip there. On our next family excursion to hear the orchestra, this junior docent pointed it out with some authority and pleasure. I think our daughter even paid it a nostalgic visit as she and her white-robed classmates emerged, newly diplomaed, from the concert hall.
The little bolt that was pressed—accidentally or on purpose—into the composite just before it was ground and polished has been referred to as “the only imperfection in the Grand Foyer.” But to my little kids, I think it was more like a tiny piece of art that, because of their proximity to the floor, they felt was intended especially for them. And in a very humble, very subtle way, the little bolt made the foyer, the hall, the orchestra itself more child-friendly. The children reciprocated by becoming more orchestra-friendly.
I was reminded of the bolt today while visiting the Scott Olson and Jerry Birchfield shows at the Transformer Station. There is already a great deal about this building and these shows in particular that makes it a pretty excellent place to share art with children. Not least among these qualities is that it is not a children’s museum any more than Severance is a children’s music center. Never underestimate the appeal to children of the interesting, age-neutral space with coincidental kid-accommodating qualities.
Its scale is the gallery’s first such quality. When I visited the Vatican Museum in the middle of an exhausting month-long trip across Europe as a 20-year-old, I had a sort of childish response to its massiveness. I found myself accelerating through the galleries until I was almost sprinting, my stomach clenching as I went into sensory overload at the sight of acres upon acres of untold wealth. Some people can handle that sort of overabundance, can even relish it, but many—especially children—cannot. With just two very accessible galleries, Transformer Station is far more likely to leave a viewer wanting more, instead of just looking forward to the gift shop.
In fact, the lack of gift shop, from a parent’s perspective, is a big plus. There’s definitely a place for retail in the museum environment, just as there’s a place for dining. Art should be part of life, after all, not something rarefied and removed. But in the case of the Transformer Station, set in a residential neighborhood with a little retail and dining nearby, the real life element is already well supplied. The afternoon is enhanced when you run across the street for a muffin and a chat with your child about art, whereas trying to get her to look at the art when she really wants to look at the gift shop toys just adds conflict.
When exhibitions are presented, as both the Olson and the Birchfield shows are, without curator’s labels near the artworks, it is also an invitation that is especially appealing to children. No one is telling them what a piece of art is called, and very little is shared about the artist’s intention. So a kid has permission to interpret completely for himself, and always be right.
The Olson show makes this especially fun. As your eye wanders across his non-representational work, you think you’ve glimpsed a bird here, a sail there, an open window sash. This space invites investigating those impressions: crossing back and forth, seeing from many angles and distances—exactly the sort of nonlinear experience my own children preferred.
But it was in the Birchfield show that I was reminded of the foyer bolt. Having circumnavigated the room, while still wondering about his method for creating texture in his work, I happened to glance up at this sculptural addition to the H-column that supports the ceiling.
It prompted me to make another trip around the show, looking more closely at the use of plaster in Birchfield’s art. There wasn’t really anything else exactly like this piece, which had reminded me of trompe l’oeil, recessed as it was inside the shadow box formed by the column’s flanges. But at the same time, it seemed like it belonged there, and meant something. Not seeing it listed among the works on the single-card gallery guide, I asked the museum receptionist about it.
“Oh, that’s mine,” she smiled. “I did that.”
She handles other tasks around the museum besides standing in for the receptionist, and one of them includes plaster work and painting. In the course of her work, she found herself with a plaster-soaked rag that, left to cure, made an excellent reminder of the artist’s process.
My own preschoolers would have loved discovering that rag, and finding out it wasn’t exactly part of the show. Their dad and I would have loved taking them across the street to the coffee shop for the discussion about whether the rag was art, or a joke, or both, or something else. And as we walked the few blocks back to our house, we all would have loved looking for the millions of other examples of accidental art that enrich the habitat of the arts-aware child.
I like all my volunteer gigs, but my Friday afternoon at Malachi House has moved into the category of “mustn’t miss.” I just made a most delightful discovery. On the second floor, around the corner from the elevator, they have the cornucopia of snacky treasure: a nugget ice machine.
You know those model homes that showcase all the latest gadgetry and the most cutting-edge domestic technology? Well, this residence for neighbors with terminal illness is sort of like a model home of clever kindness. Everywhere you look, there’s evidence that people had their thinking caps on snuggly when furnishing a row of brick townhouses in this quiet corner of Greater Hingetown: from the generous dining table that provides a friendly gathering place, to the cozy porches overlooking a carefully tended streetside perennial border. And of course, there is this most excellent, most miraculously magical ice machine.
When I was pregnant with my first child, I developed pagophagia, and I apparently never fully recovered. I can’t say I tried. It’s one of the most benign of the various forms of pica, it seems to me. Craving for non-nutritive items can get pretty icky if you find yourself munching dirt or laundry detergent. But craving ice—while it might indicate something serious like an iron deficiency, and can be a little hard on your teeth—at least doesn’t horrify people when they catch you indulging. In fact, I only just now found out that there are other connaisseurs de glace!
As I was digging into the ice bucket in the kitchen for the second time today, the cook looked up from her listmaking to raise a knowing eyebrow. “I know, right?” she said. “It’s so delicious!” Yes! It is! These pebbles of ice manage to be both crisp and slightly slushy, with a clean finish absolutely free of chlorine bouquet. And here—right here!—was this other human being who understood!
I shared my delightful discovery with my good husband when he got home from work a while ago and, displaying one of his traits that can be just the teensiest bit infuriating, he casually informed me of the Sonic Ice Cult. “Oh sure,” he said, setting down his bag and flipping through the mail. “They call it ‘nugget ice.’ Sonic Drive-In is supposed to have the best. You can get a machine to make it at home.” Had I not been so filled with a glow of comradery and harmony, possibly I would have throttled him.
I’m not sure why, after 22 years of observing me carefully crushing ice cubes, melting them in cold water to the point of perfection before savoring their icy goodness, why, I say, he did not one time suggest date-night dinner at Sonic, or clue me in that there were other people like me, or buy me a goddamn nugget maker for our anniversary! But I will let it go. I will just let it go.
Because now I know. And because blessed Malachi House is right around the corner.
In my own yard, the summersweet have failed to put on their usual show of glorious gold. Outside my kitchen window, all is brown, brown. Faded hydrangea, reluctant sedum, potted chrysanthemum, even Japanese maple—everything has suffered from those weeks of drought and inertia. I could stop looking at the work I haven’t done and drive down into the valley instead.
Of course, the drought has not been confined to my own estate any more than the inertia is. I text my daughter a photo of the cloudy sky, the clouded lake, the canopy that is the color of soot and burnt toast. Not every day is a calendar shot.
Looping back toward the car, there is a single red leaf along the side of the trail. I look all around: there is not a red tree in sight. What breeze or observant toddler brought this here? No proof to the contrary, I can choose to believe in the artistic intentionality of the toddler.
We have organized a “no-guilt” bookclub. Members don’t read the same book. Sometimes, members don’t read any book, but they can still come, sit around my kitchen, and be reminded of all the good books and good people there are.
In September, Denise brings pawpaws from her treelawn. They are a wonder to us. A little squashy, a little bruised, packed with shiny black seeds the size of buttons. And delicious. “They are indigenous,” Denise pronounces, with some measure of amazement. Nature has been generous to America.
We scoop out the juicy flesh with my favorite tiny spoons, and suck the pulp from the seeds, and talk about our grown children and our books.
We stand in the street and glumly consider my ineffectual gutters. Tom assures me he will come over to help me replace them, when he can spare some time from his part-time job maintaining one of Cleveland’s many aging churches.
He describes those old buildings, and something sets my story senses tingling. I abandon the awful gutters in favor of some quick research. It takes less than ten minutes to catch the tail of a wild tale about a renegade priest. Hours later, I realize there is nothing for supper.
On the other hand, as long as I have this century-old story to excavate, I will be less likely to be sucked into the Twitter vortex.
We never made it back to St. John after spending our honeymoon there, and now I wonder what’s become of the sugarbirds.
I don’t know how to swim, so there was no snorkeling in Trunk Bay, no gazing down into the corals, anemones and tropical fish that were still rumored to proliferate. And we had only a little bit of money, so there was no dramatic view of the island’s undular green hills from helicopter or parasail. My earthbound view was upward: early in the morning, before the lazy groom was awakened by the humidity and the sunshine filtering through the canvas of our tent.
And up there in that canopy, there were dozens, hundreds of yellow-bellied bananaquits. They flitted down to gorge themselves on the bowls of sugar left all over camp. Yellow, flashing under green canopy, flickering under blue sky.
It’s true that I cannot remember there being other people on St. John, although I realize now that there must have been. But on Puerto Rico, there are the extended families of our neighbors and our friends. There are 700 times as many sufferers. So we send the donation to PR, and hope for the best.