After attending Elkhorn High School in the mid-forties, she returned to California reuniting with her parents. Over the years, mother stayed in contact with Jo learning that this young girl eventually married and had her own family. When I too was married in San Francisco 20 years later, my parents visited her in Oakland and met her family. What remained in my mind was the sweetness of this woman fixing her eyes on me marveling how this scrappy boy had grown to be a man. 

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Upon graduating from high school in 1946, Bob enlisted in the U.S. Navy, where he served two years. Upon his discharge with aid from the Servicemen’s Readjustment Act of 1944 (G.I. Bill), he enrolled in the School of Journalism at Marquette University. After his freshman year, he announced to the family that he had converted to Catholicism. Marquette is a Jesuit university, and Bob reasoned that he could benefit more from his education as a Catholic. This made sense to me then and makes more sense now. Catholic social thought includes a commitment to justice in society measured by its treatment of its weakest and most vulnerable members. 

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It also has what scholar Michael Gerson calls an “if, then” requirement. “If you want to call yourself pro-life on abortion, then you have to oppose the dehumanization of immigrants. If you criticize the dehumanization of life by euthanasia, then you must criticize the dehumanization of life by racism. If you want to be regarded as pro-life, then you must support access to health care.” I prefer to think that Bob holds dear and practices these values though many Catholics seem unmoved by the tradition. This may explain why Hispanics are heavily Catholic with more than one-third of its U.S congregations today Hispanic. 

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But mother is hardly a theologian and was distressed. Dad was indifferent, as was the family generally. Religion played a modest role in our lives, and we boys attended Sunday school to pacify mother for cultural reasons and to connect with other kids for social reasons. Church-going was omnipresent in town, and it was my impression that many adults attended to be visible, accounted for, and sociable on Sunday mornings. 

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Mother’s attitude towards Bob’s conversion reflected a latent prejudice against Catholics. I went to school with several Catholic friends, who, aside from arcane rituals, seemed perfectly normal. Discrimination against those of that faith was prevalent 100 or more years ago with the influx of Irish, Polish, and Italians to America. We still were far from being beyond irrational fear. 

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Elkhorn even had two cemeteries—one for Protestants and another for Catholics. This came as a humorous paradox to Shannon, when she attempted to visit her grandparents’ graves while in college. The two weren’t far apart, and she innocently was misdirected. Where the few Jewish residents found a resting place is a mystery to me. 

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This was bizarre given mother’s hypocrisy toward religion. Grandmother was a devoted Baptist, so mom, it appeared, had us congregate with the Methodists across the boulevard on Church Street. She and dad only attended services on Christmas and Easter, which didn’t go unnoticed by their offspring. 

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I was disturbed, and saddened, at my mother's church funeral in 1982 with its obligatory religious trappings. The presiding minister understandably didn’t even know her. Here was a woman who lived her entire life in town and was nonentity to the church. 

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Dad’s funeral twenty-two years later was more fitting and not in a church. Yes, a minister presided, but most memorable were representatives of Elkhorn’s fire department. They were there to honor his long-term service as volunteer fireman and by proxy that of grandfather Fred B. MaGill. 

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With a sense of duty, I went through Confirmation (a marker along the spiritual journey of adolescence) with others in our 7th grade class. Confirmation is a counterpart of baptism for those on the other side of the street, whom I understood later are more conservative in their worship than the somewhat liberal Methodists. Maybe this is why we attended the followers of theologian John Wesley, but I doubt it. 

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I don’t remember much from the experience, but some learning must have slipped through. I continued an interest in religion, or theological thought, as I made my way through high school and college. My search for meaning in life would be continuous.  

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While in college, a few years later, we students conducted a Sunday service during the winter break. After one service, an elder in the congregation suggested that I consider going into the ministry. This seemed odd at the time. In retrospect, however, seeing that theology could be deeply embedded in cultural issues, I can see the fit. Today, the Methodist Church is witnessing a schism over the issue of gay and lesbian marriage. I know where I would fall on the divide. 

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What I do remember earlier is scouting activities. Cub scouts for younger boys was after-school play followed by snacks prepared by one of the mothers. I probably was awarded a badge or two but didn’t pay much attention to the requirements. Girls seemed more organized hawking overpriced cookies to increase the revenue of its national affiliate.

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I had no interest in moving on to Boy Scouts by 6th grade with its so-called character building and merit badges. I wasn’t a rebel or even close, but most of the boys were nerds, so I thought. I probably would have come to appreciate friendship with some, but I was a young jock. 

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What substituted for Boy Scouts in early adolescence was Elkhorn’s Boy’s Club with its Knights of the Round Table Chivalry and Adventure. Even then Roger and I were not very accomplished “brothers-in-arms.” When the annual meeting approached, we were required to make shields out of wood. Don, home on leave as a 2nd Lieutenant, came to the rescue, purchased pine boards, lacquered them, and created a vivid painting of Sir Lancelot’s for Roger and Sir Galahad’s for me. 

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The Boy’s Club turned out to be a misadventure for the community. It had been ginned up by Dr. Olan Anderson, an optometrist with a thriving office downtown and majestic home on the westside. “Doc” even had a Black maid and 1950s bomb shelter. The Club was a front for his misdeeds. 

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Anderson was a generous guy, so it seemed, who organized the Club for junior high-aged boys, 11-13, conveniently entering puberty. Doc came along before the gay and lesbian cultural movement, and remained in the “closet.” His homosexuality, however, went beyond decency and morality, indulging in pleasure with boys. 

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The Club was more adventurous than the Boy Scouts, as he arranged trips to Milwaukee for Golden Gloves boxing and Chicago for Blackhawk hockey games. We had our own boxing contests after Saturday night meetings, and sleepovers at his lake cottage. Doc managed to disguise his intentions to adults by showing up with an attractive woman on his arm, when we traveled to big cities. 

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Most of us in the Boy’s Club knew of his perversion but were too morally immature to judge right from wrong in a professional adult. I realized initially that his escapades were reserved for older boys ages 12 and 13. Then one evening at the lake cottage, three of us boys were in bed, when he opened our door inviting one of us to join him in his room. This was not on my agenda nor that of Jon Platts’, but the third boy, Dave Anderson, accepted the invitation. Later, when Dave returned to our room, he gave us a detailed description of what transgressed. 

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It wasn’t long after that the ax fell, when an older boy told what was going on. Within 24 hours, Anderson’s office was shut down, and the doctor was ordered out of town. I suspect that some parents sensed that Doc was an aberration, and the response was fast. As the story goes, he moved to Minneapolis, where he could find obscurity and work as a medical technology salesman. 

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Dave, among seven or eight other boys, was called on to testify in court. Doc was not convicted but literally ran out of town. Later in life after marriage with grown kids, Dave came out of the closet living life as a gay man. He did say that his encounter had nothing to do with his homosexuality. The disposition was innate. 

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Somewhat ironic in all this is that Dave Anderson grew up to be a right-wing zealot. Later he moved to The Villages, a conservative enclave in central Florida. In doing so, he navigates among those who are negative towards the gay community. Fortunately for him, attitudes are changing. 

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A lesson that I took from junior high school is that your academic reputation follows for some time. My attitude and behavior improved with some maturity in 8th grade, but course grades were slow to materialize. In history, language arts, and natural science, where it seemed that I deserved at least a “B”, the report card showed “C”. I felt some remorse but not discouraged. I was bent on improving. 

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By 8th grade, I realized that college was to be on my life’s path. In observing the work many adults performed in factories, retail, and the trades, I sensed this would not be occupationally and mentally fulfilling. I set out to become a student and do better in classes. I was encouraged when the junior high principal, Frank Grunseth, stopped me in the hallway one day during first semester in 9th grade commenting that he had heard good things about my classwork work from teachers. I respected him for his dedication to the school and gained a jolt of confidence from the encounter. 

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One’s reputation doesn’t change overnight, but the grades did gradually improve. I wasn’t yet an “A” student but, at least, headed in the right direction. 

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My naivety and innocence were telling. I was influenced largely by the peer crowd when conformity was the norm. These were years defined by the presidencies of Harry S. Truman and Dwight D. Eisenhower, who was elected in 1952, when I was an immature eighth grader.