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A Midwestern Memory: a Baby Boomer's Reminiscence of Growing up, as he Attends his Mother's Funeral.

by William Kleiser

174 pages; quality trade paperback (softcover); catalogue #03-1546; ISBN 1-4120-1168-X; US$18.00, C$21.00, EUR15.00, £10.50

A humorous, satirical, and affectionate look back on growing up in a blue collar, Catholic, Midwestern family, as told by that family's oldest son. He is now a middle aged adult in a completely different lifestyle, brought back to his little town and its memories by the death of his mother.

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about the book      about the author      sample excerpts      catalogue info

About the Book The story revolves around the sudden death of the author's mother. The author is a middle aged business man living alone in Southern California at the time of her death. To arrange and attend her funeral, he returns to Stanton, Illinois, now considered a suburb of Chicago, the town where he grew up in the 1950s. During the days of the funeral preparation, he spends time with his father, and looks back on the way he was raised, and the man he has become as a result. Events of the funeral cause flashbacks that cover a variety of humorous events, such as, a vacation that involved his truck driver father trying to drive around all of the Great Lakes, only stopping when the family Buick station wagon needed gas. Infatuated with the Beatles, and determined to become one, there is a flashback of the reaction of his father when the author attempted to purchase his first guitar. This is a Midwestern family of devout Catholics, and there are several looks back on the author's experiences as an Altar Boy, involving being disciplined by the Nuns for using his ruler as a guitar, and a profound fear of statues. As a child, many people thought the author would end up becoming a Priest, because he had a complete Altar set up in his bedroom and held daily Masses with neighborhood kids (obviously bored with Summer vacation), in attendance. Other days, actual funeral ceremonies, with processions, were held for dead birds found in the neighborhood. The author returns to the Church of his youth to make the funeral arrangements for his mother, not only triggering these and other memories, but realizing what this church, this town, and the people in them really mean to him now.

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About the Author William Kleiser is a frustrated musician, songwriter, woodworker, and author. He has written numerous unheard songs and unread short stories. At age 51 he decided it was time to write a memoir that would be of interest to no one. He was born and raised in Elgin, Illinois, and now resides in Sacramento, California with his wife, Laura.

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Sample Excerpts

Excerpt 1

...In the Midwest, you must go through the ritual of putting up the storm windows in the fall and the screens in the spring. When I was a kid, the world was starting to embrace the newly invented combination windows, and I can recall visiting people that had had them installed. I would watch as the adults played with the latches and saw how smooth they glided across the tracks. I imagined this family next fall simply closing a window using only two fingers and just like that, they were ready for winter. This family would spend the rest of their Saturday carving pumpkins and eating taffy apples, as I balanced heavy wooden framed storm windows high atop a ladder, trying to guide them onto hooks I could not see. We probably could not have afforded the new combination windows, but I suspect even if we had the money, Dad would not have changed. I believe he was suspicious of inventions like this, and in his world he would associate combination windows with the corruption and downfall of mankind. "First you have combination windows and no one has to put up storms or screens anymore, and the next thing you know we are all laying in some opium den with glazed looks on our faces, atrophy shrinking our legs and arms into useless appendages not even capable of sliding the combination window closed as the snow blows in and settles on our motionless bodies." So to help man avoid this slippery slope, our family kept the storm window tradition alive....

Excerpt 2

...As the three of us walked on, energized by the snow and cold crisp air, we reached the corner of Dunlop and Linden Avenues. This was the top of the hill that signaled the beginning of the old neighborhood. This was as far as we were allowed to go as kids, and this was the hill my dad would turn down in his truck, allowing us a few quick moments to turn off the television, hide the cereal bowls, and get dressed. Looking down the hill we see the house. It looks like a miniature house to both of us. How could five people have lived in something so small? Besides the color of paint, the house looks the same. I would love to go inside and look around. We start making our way down toward the house, and my sister reminds me of the many processions she participated in on this very hill. I used to recruit anybody in the neighborhood to be in one of my processions. I had a procession during Lent, a procession for Easter, a special Blessed Virgin Mary procession in May, and my specialty, the bird funeral procession. I was always fascinated with the Catholic Church and its many ceremonies. Everyone figured I was going to be a priest when I grew up, because I was always imitating them. I had an altar in my bedroom where I would hold services on a daily basis. I had vestments, a chalice, an old antique bookstand that I used for a pulpit, I had a large cross that stood behind the altar and could be removed for the outdoor processions. When you entered my bedroom, you had to dip your hand in holy water and make the sign of the cross. My mother helped me by sewing the vestments and providing a white table cloth for the altar. The tablecloth had embroidered roosters on the borders, but I was able to over look this small detail. Ritz crackers became hosts for communion, and grape Kool-Aid was the wine, which I would turn into the "Blood of Christ" much to the amazement of Darryl Murphy, the only kid in the neighborhood that would attend my morning service. Daryl always wore a cowboy uniform. He had a plaid shirt, with a bolo tie, jeans, and a holster and pistol. I didn't like the fact that he wore a gun to church, but since he was the only kid willing to attend, I had to allow it. I celebrated most of the mass in Latin so I don't suppose it meant to much to Daryl, and I suspect he came strictly for the Ritz crackers and Kool-Aid.

But the bird funerals were a different story. When someone in the neighborhood found a dead bird, even when it was several blocks away, it made its way to my door. I would decide when the funeral would be held and most of the kids in the neighborhood would turn out for the procession. It must have been quite a spectacle to people passing by. I would lead the way down the Linden Avenue hill, dressed in a white robe with a gold sepulture around my neck. Terry Mayers would follow holding the crucifix. Daryl Stanley, dressed in his special," mourning' Roy Rogers outfit, would get to carry the blessed incense. This was his reward for attending all those Masses in my bedroom. He would walk backward holding the incense container, (a soup can), by the chain and waving it over the bird's casket. The casket was a cardboard shoebox and the pallbearer was Terry's Mayer's younger brother, Jeff. The Mayers had nine children, all boys, so they were the "go to" family for funeral processions and sand lot baseball games. The procession would proceed past our house across Belmont Avenue to the corner of Belmont and Linden. This was the Mayer's front yard. Right at the corner of their yard was a small fieldstone tower. It stood about four feet high, with a flat cement slab at the top. I would be assisted to the top of this tower, and there I would eulogize the fallen bird. After several minutes, the faithful would start to leave, or lay down on the grass. Some of them would start to discuss what they were going to do that day. Occasionally a fight would break out and every one would gather around the fighters, leaving me alone on the tower, shoebox in my hand, talking to no one. Even Daryl would drift away, knowing that there was no Œcommunion' at a funeral. What would start as a glorious spectacle of Catholic ceremony, would end by me gathering the crucifix and soup can and walking back home alone. I would just be crossing the street when Mrs. Mayer would yell from her front porch," You're not going to leave that dead bird in my yard, are you?" There are many difficult times in the priesthood....

Excerpt 3

...We boarded the plane and found our seats without too much difficulty. Because the tickets were purchased only yesterday, we couldn't sit together. I made sure dad was comfortable with a blanket and a couple magazines. I figured he would use the blanket, but not the magazines. Dad was never much of a reader. After the plane was in the air, I looked back and saw that dad was crying, as he stared out of the window of the plane. I began to wonder how a man like him would get through not only the next few days, but also the next several years. Self *help books, counseling, and support groups were not words dad ever used, much less utilized. For a man that can barely walk and refuses a wheel chair, the thought of seeking outside help for his grief was remote at best. I had never really seen him with out my mother. The thought that mom was already in Stanton was very strange to me. She flew in the cargo hold of the red eye flight to Chicago last night. That would have probably been the most exciting thing she had ever done, if it had happened a week earlier.

My parents were married forty-five years. The only separation was when he was at work or the ten days every other summer when he took the Boy Scouts on a fishing trip to Canada. I went on three of those Canadian trips. Looking back on it, my dad really deserved a lot of credit for pulling these trips off. It takes some real planning to send fifteen boys and five men to an island north of Minnesota to be left there for a week, to live on peanut butter and Northern Pike. I liked being a Boy Scout. I liked the uniform with the sash that displayed my merit badges. I had a few medals as well. When I got to be part of the color guard for events at our church, I was proud to walk around in that uniform. I sensed that people were looking at me, and for some reason the center of attention was a place I enjoyed. The Boy Scouts taught me many things other than how to camp and tie knots. I learned about sex, pornography, and also had my first (of many), cigarettes at scout camp. I heard a friend of mine talk about one of the older boys that was in our troop in a way that was usually reserved for talking about girls. (Years later I learned why.) I saw grown ups argue with each other, I saw a man make gravy from hot dogs, I learned to shoot a .22 rifle, I learned Morse code, flag etiquette, first aid, water rescue, digging a latrine, and because we were not very capable fisherman, I learned how to survive for seven days on peanut butter....

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Catalogue Information

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