Not Many Days Later…

Twenty two year old Jesuit student Benedict Desmond closes his letter back to Chicago from the Saint Joseph’s Sanitarium in Albuquerque. It must have been a lonely outpost for him, and a difficult recuperation, though he mentions finally gaining the strength to actually write any letters at all. In 1907, there were no other means of long-distance communication than what we now view as the tedious “snail mail.” Gathering the pens and paper needed, going through the actual act of writing his thoughts on paper, then securing proper address, stamps, and delivery to whatever postal service was available in the New Mexico Territory at that time may well have been an exhausting process for a victim of tuberculosis.

He was, though, getting better, as he mentions in his letter to Catherine Tully that December 16, 1907. And yet, he still humbly requests the Tully family’s prayers on his behalf. He asks also for the widow Mrs. Tully to remember the widow Mrs. Anna Catherine Desmond in the town of his birth—Galena, Jo Daviess County, on the other side of the state from Chicago. “If it is not too much trouble, call at our house now and then.”

Did he know? Was he just attempting a feeble hopefulness despite what his symptoms were shouting at him?

Young Ben starts a litany of “remember me to….” These are all Catherine Tully’s daughters he mentions: Mae, the one married and living in Ohio with three daughters of her own; Lily, her next-younger sister, by now nearing thirty yet still single; and Agnes, grown-up enough to be almost twenty, herself. His mention of his role as god-father of William and Mary Balfe Tully’s baby, Agnes, prompts me to someday access the microfilmed records of the Catholic parish they attended in Chicago in hopes of confirming that detail in church records.

Was it just formality, or was there a twinge of wistfulness in the holiday wishes included in closing? Benedict Desmond, Jesuit student, carefully inserts the “S. J.” following his name, remembering who he is—who he will always be—despite any sickness which seeks to prevail. He is part of the Societas Iesu. There is a calling on his life.

And yet, before any letter could make the return trip to bring him a reply from the Tully family, Benedict Desmond succumbs to his illness. He dies on the day after Christmas, ten days after writing this letter. Whether for time, finances, or restrictions of distance from home, Ben still remains in that outpost so far from everyone he knew—classmates, church friends and family—buried in Mount Calvary Cemetery in Albuquerque.

            I am a very poor god-father, I must confess, but I hope to make up for it by my prayers, sooner or later.

            If it is not too much trouble, call at our house now and then.

            I hope Mae is doing well, also that Lily and Agnes are prospering. I don’t doubt that Agnes is become quite a grown-up lady since I saw her last.

            Wishing all of you a very Merry Christmas! and “Happy New Year,” I remain as ever

                        Very truly yours,

                        Benedict Desmond, S. J.

P. S. –A “Hail Mary” would make a very nice Xmas present for me. I shall pray for all of you, too.

            L. D. S.

That Dread White Plague Again

It hardly takes much time in researching family history roots in the city of Chicago to see that tuberculosis played a looming role in the ebb and flow of life events there. It seems, also, that among Agnes Tully Stevens’ personal papers, there were many letters from priests who had been smitten with the disease. Banished to far-away sanitaria in higher, drier climes, they were doomed to spend their days separated from all they knew and loved—indeed, anyone who held the possibility of bestowing upon them any role of significance.

Agnes was not the only one in the family to serve as such a correspondent. She inherited this proclivity from her mother, Catherine Malloy Tully, who also sought to connect and comfort with her pen those sent far away—whether for service or disease.

Nearly ten months after Catherine had lost her husband, John Tully, a letter arrived for her from Albuquerque. It was meant as a letter of condolence, but, as the writer explained, the expression of this sentiment was unavoidably delayed due to his own difficulties which had brought him to that location.

The writer was a young man by the name of Benedict Desmond, but a note inscribed by Catherine on the envelope, “Ben’s letter,” reveals a more familiar nickname. He was a Jesuit student, being at the time twenty two years of age. Second son of a woman widowed many years before, Ben had been raised in a town well over one hundred miles removed from Chicago. His pursuit of service with the Society of Jesus—or, as it is more commonly called, Jesuits—required a path of training acknowledged as one of the longest terms of formation for priesthood within the Catholic church. Undoubtedly, with those religious requirements, this rural Illinois student’s educational path brought him to the city of Chicago; perhaps he found himself one of the student boarders hosted by the Tully family. Or perhaps, Catherine Tully served as a self-appointed adoptive “mom” to many such students as this Ben.

Whatever his role in Chicago preceding this 1907 letter, Ben was now residing at an institution founded by the Sisters of Charity not many years prior to his arrival. Saint Joseph’s Sanitarium, in what was then the New Mexico Territory, was built in preparation for the waves of tuberculosis victims yet to come to the southwest, seeking—hoping for—treatment.

In Ben’s case, it seemed the hope was catching. Perhaps his sentiment regarding “happy days that are soon to come” was not only meant for the mourning widow he was addressing, but for himself as well.

                                                                       St. Joseph’s San.,

                                                                       Albuquerque, N. M.

                                                                       Dec. 16, 1907.

Mrs. Tully.

Dear friend,

            Having heard of Mr. Tully’s death through my mother, I had intended to write you a few words of condolence when I myself was stricken with the dread White Plague. Since my sickness and subsequent removal to Albuquerque, I have not done much writing to any outside my family.

            But since Christmas is so near and since I am improving so fast that I can now write with more safety than heretofore, I could not forbear a few words, of condolence for the sorrow that is past, and of greeting for the happy days that are soon to come.

What I Left Out of Those Letters…

If you’ve been following this story with me—the story of Frank Stevens of Chicago and his family—you and I have been journeying together along this line for nearly six months. After what I told you about Frank at the end, yesterday when I revealed his weakness, think about this: would you have embarked on this story journey at the first if I told you, up front, that this was going to be a tragedy about an alcoholic? I know I wouldn’t stick with it!

I have never met Frank, myself, but from what I knew of him from the hurts I read in his surviving children’s hearts, I confess I wouldn’t have had much interest in following his life’s story—not even the snippets I have since been able to find through his letters and photos. Setting that aside though, when I did get to read those letters—let Frank tell his life’s experiences from his own point of view—I saw a young person very different from the father I learned of through others’ eyes. And honestly, I found myself falling in love with a very charming, very fun guy—after which it breaks my heart to think that all this befell someone as lovable as that.

When it is all said and done, though, I need to remember some of the sage observations others in the family made about that life once it was no longer being lived—comments in letters from his oldest brother John, and even from his own wife.

Remember the letter I told you about, the one Frank’s brother John wrote home to his mother, Agnes Tully Stevens, who was unable to make the trip from Chicago to Albuquerque to attend her son’s funeral? What I left out of that letter in my previous post was John’s observation about Frank’s condition:

Frank loved Norma + the kids but he was definitely an alcoholic and we must face this fact.

Fr. Baca said he was to be pitied as he couldn’t help it.

Two weeks ago our pastor told us from the altar that while the Church didn’t condone uncontrolled drinking by anyone that alcoholism was a disease not a sin.

Norma was crazy about him but he did give her a lot of grief and almost drove the poor girl insane with worry because she never knew what he would do or what would happen to him when he was drinking. He lost lots of money gambling.

When Norma wrote her letter to her mother-in-law, Agnes, after Frank’s passing, in the midst of the notes I had already shown you, she had also mentioned,

he was a good man, just very ill… I know he’s no longer miserable, but peaceful and happy, it helps me bear the heartache. No matter what I went through I loved him so very much… We try to remember the good times, as much as we can, we had with Steve.

To look back in time and survey that history through the eyes of the cold diagnosis of alcoholism may be realistic, but it also strips the man of the multi-faceted essences of life. Perhaps it was the war that did this to him before any such diagnosis could box him in with that rigid stereotype. Whatever it ended up being that portrayed him in such a tragic cast, I prefer to remember the full picture of who he was before life hemmed him in: that young man, full of life, full of hope, full of good-will and wishes to do good for others—and always ready for an adventure.

In my heart, I believe that there are so many more people who mean to do well than can make it so in the end.

In my heart, I want to remember that big picture.

In my heart, I want to appreciate those good beginnings, and continue to seek whatever slightest thread may weave itself through to the end.

When Family History Collides With Current Events

Starting with the story of my husband’s two Tully ancestors—the cousins Edna Tully McCaughey and Agnes Tully Stevens—I’ve spent the last six months recounting the history of the families of two grandchildren of Denis and Margaret Flannery Tully of Ballina, Ireland, and Paris village in Brant County, Ontario, Canada.

In the case of Agnes Tully’s line, established in Chicago with the arrival of her father John Tully there, we’ve moved all the way to the near-present, from Agnes’ marriage to Will Stevens in 1912, to their many sons and daughter, to the line of Frank Stevens up through the 1970s. Thus, family history meets current events as the family moves from their last post-military residence in Albuquerque to a new home and future in Colorado Springs, Colorado.

With the arrival of Norma and the Stevens children in Colorado, it comes as no surprise that beautiful Norma’s beautiful daughters soon meet with some of the handsome, talented, and charming young men of the city—not to mention those of the Air Force Academy, itself. I alluded to that icon that featured not only in the Stevens family’s past, but also its future, and it did turn out that there have been a couple Stevens family wedding ceremonies held in that Air Force Academy chapel over the years.

Perhaps the military way of life gets in the blood—or joins in, courtesy of new in-laws—and soon, transfers are in order. Though the older children, now married adults, have their own lives to live, somehow, those family ties still claim solidarity, and when one family moves away, the others follow suit—at least that’s what seems to be happening only a few years after the move to Colorado, when the Stevens family—all new branches of them—pick up and head for Texas.

Or perhaps now, it’s about the grandkids.

Photograph, above left: United States Air Force Academy Chapel, Colorado Springs, Colorado; courtesy the Carol M. Highsmith Archive at the Library of Congress, via Wikipedia; photograph released by Highsmith into the public domain.

After Winter is Always Spring

It is hard to consider the enormous loss borne by the wife of Frank Stevens, the Chicago boy turned World War II veteran: first, losing her husband, then losing her oldest son. No matter how devastating life’s blows, there is always a tomorrow, a call for hope that things will get better. With much time, for Norma too, that would be the case.

Those first weeks and months must have been unbearable. Eventually, though, those months stretched into a year. Somewhere along the way, Norma met someone who became especially encouraging to her, someone to whom she eventually decided to say, “I do.”

Even so, the old neighborhood in Albuquerque must have held too many painful memories. The family decided to move—to get a fresh start. After all, Norma and the kids were accustomed to the military style of life. Any place could be called home with a little determination and will power. They could start over again.

Oddly, the city the family chose for life’s new destination was home to an Air Force icon: the blue and silver of the Fighting Falcons. High on a ridge to the north of Colorado Springs sits the United States Air Force Academy, both a reminder to the family, in their new home, of their now long-gone father’s military service, and a hint of events yet to come.

Life settled back into that comfortable routine, eventually—community college for the oldest, enrollment in public school for the youngest ones as a private Catholic education was no longer a possibility. Not that there wasn’t a gaping hole left where two loved family members used to be—it’s just that, for the living, Life just keeps on needing to be lived.

Another February Funeral

Buried within the news of another traffic fatality, John Kelly Stevens’ passing was mentioned the next morning—albeit with the requisite reporting error—in the Albuquerque Journal.

Stevens died in Presbyterian Hospital Wednesday of injuries he suffered in a one-car crash early last Friday morning.

Both the Journal and the other Albuquerque newspaper, the Tribune, carried Kelly’s obituary that Thursday, February 12, 1970. Brief, it noted his seven years’ residency in the city and his affiliation with the church, Queen of Heaven. There wasn’t much more to say about a nineteen-year-old.

Significantly, he was remembered by a guitar mass on Friday morning. The ever-present Father Paul M. Baca was the celebrant, once again standing by the family in their latest loss, as were Kelly’s friends who now served as his pallbearers: Chris Davis, Steve Davis, Wayne Rich, Bill Oden, John Romero and Mike Rakes.

At 2:00 p.m. that Friday afternoon, the funeral procession completed its one hour journey from Albuquerque to Santa Fe, where the family said their last goodbyes to another Stevens family member at the National Cemetery.

Kelly was laid to rest next to his father.

Losses

When John Kelly Stevens caught a ride home from the party that Friday night, it wasn’t with the friends who had brought him there. Kelly wasn’t ready to leave when his ride wanted to go, so he took a chance on bumming a ride, later on, with someone else.

That, it turned out, was a costly decision. Only moments later, he was pinned into the passenger seat from the impact of an unexpected crash. The engine block, propelled by the tree the car had struck, landed on Kelly’s legs, becoming both the blessing that kept him from launching completely through the windshield, and the curse that rearranged his internal organs and broke his back.

Though the ambulance whisked him to the most modern facility the city boasted at the time—Albuquerque’s Presbyterian Hospital—it was not likely that this state-of-the-art facility was even prepared to address Kelly’s needs. This was an era that pre-dated the region’s adoption of the knowledge we’ve accumulated about treating the body’s reaction to trauma. Each independent medical need was addressed promptly and effectively, but the concept of treating the body as a complete whole, capable of vacillating from one extreme to another when put under such stress, was not yet a widespread practice.

During that night—and the ensuing four days—Norma watched her son being rolled back and forth into the surgical suite, addressing a series of physical components as if performing patchwork on a pin cushion. Kelly’s back was broken. He needed heart surgery. He lost his spleen. He lost a leg.

And ultimately, he lost his life.

The Elm Tree on Monte Vista Boulevard

It doesn’t seem like much of a curve when you look at it from above—just the slightest bend in the road. It’s when you are not watching where you are going that those slight turns catch up with you. It’s all a matter of perspective.

We went back to Monte Vista Boulevard on a research trip to Albuquerque a few years ago. My husband needed to re-acquaint himself with a particular tree in question, and to see for himself how such a little angle could devolve into such a big matter.

As you can see from the satellite picture of the area above, there is not much of a bend in the road at all. Taken from the street view, on foot, the visuals produce a bit more of a clue. Walking south of the intersection in question—Monte Vista and Marquette—the curve becomes a bit more apparent. The further back, the more obvious the change in direction.

How quickly that little variance can fly by.

At thirty-five miles per hour.

At more than thirty-five miles per hour.

When the distance traversed between car passenger and that particular elm tree became a matter of the space between the front fender and the vehicle’s passenger compartment, it left a noticeable impact. One news report claimed that the tree had actually been uprooted, but when we talked to a long-time resident on that street, there was no remembrance of the tree being removed.

Some say it stayed—but with a scar.

Trees never move. That’s the power of roots. A metal frame moving at a safe, reasonable speed of, say, thirty-five miles per hour—or even, say, a less safe, less reasonable speed of much more than thirty-five miles per hour—may jar a tree upon impact. But in a competition of endurance—tree versus vehicle—it will be the steel that will give, more than the tree.

This elm tree stood its ground. The car heading northbound on Monte Vista on Friday night, February 6, 1970, that decided to take it on, head to head, discovered that it was no match for the elm. The car’s front end crumpled with a force that sent the engine block penetrating far enough into the passenger compartment to land on the front seat.

Norma’s son, John Kelly Stevens, was on that front seat. Pinned.

The elm tree won.

Satellite image, top right, from Google Maps.

Kelly’s Shoes

 …the one shall be taken, and the other shall be left.

Leaving her home abruptly upon word of her son’s injuries, Norma Stevens headed for Presbyterian Hospital in Albuquerque, where Kelly was soon in surgery. I imagine at first, she didn’t really know what to expect, although once at the hospital, it took little time to grasp the extent of the situation. There were so many injuries that one necessary surgery had to be deferred to treat other, more urgent, medical needs. Friday night’s surgery would be only the beginning.

Meanwhile, the three younger ones remained at home, waiting that uneasy wait.

At one point, someone at home caught a headline about the wreck on the late night news, and they all gathered to watch. There was the scene—dark of course, as it occurred at night. It was hard to make out details, but even though the car involved was mangled, there was a report that some injuries weren’t as serious as others—maybe something as simple as “just” a broken nose.

As the news camera filmed the response team wrapping up their work at the crash site, Kelly’s sister took a long look at the body on the guerney, waiting to be whisked into the ambulance. Even on the television monitor in the darkness, she could tell it wouldn’t be Kelly that was the one with the broken nose. She could see enough detail on that guerney to know: it was the other guy who walked away.

Those were Kelly’s shoes.

News, Again

Home is a happening place when the household boasts three teenagers. Though it’s now been four years since Frank Stevens’ passing, and though each one in the family still misses him, time has once again brought them vitality and activity and the normal ups and downs of young life in America. There have been school assignments, after-school part-time jobs, friendships and adventures. And parties.

It was nothing out of the ordinary for nineteen-year-old Kelly to join his friends at a party across town. It was a Friday night at the beginning of February, cold and miserable—just the kind of weather that makes you want to go out and do something. There was a get-together at a friend-of-a-friend’s house that evening, so why not? Kelly caught a ride with some friends and headed to the party.

It would have been nothing out of the ordinary, except that the next morning’s headlines ran four years to the day after publication of Frank’s rosary announcement on another cold February day in 1966.

 

            A 19-year-old Albuquerque youth was listed in critical condition Friday night after an accident earlier Friday in the Northeast Heights. John Kelly Stevens, 2800 Cuervo Dr. NE, underwent surgery Friday night at Presbyterian Hospital.

            Patrolman Arthur R. Thompson said Stevens was a passenger in a northbound vehicle driven by Kenneth A. Dodge, 19, of 4906 Comanche NE. The car jumped a curb at 3510 Monte Vista NE and veered out of control through a yard and crashed into a tree, Thompson said.

            The front end of the car was completely demolished, the patrolman said. Thompson said Dodge told him that Stevens dropped a lighted cigaret on the front seat. Dodge said he looked at it and brushed it off the seat. When he looked up, the car was jumping the curb, and he could not avoid hitting the tree, he told police.

            Dodge was listed in good condition Friday night at Presbyterian.

Of course, Norma needn’t have waited to read the news in the Albuquerque Journal. She had already received notification late that Friday night. A long vigil at Presbyterian Hospital, with prayers for a best outcome for a complicated surgery, took her into the wee hours of Saturday morning.

And that would be only the beginning.

News article originally published in the Albuquerque Journal, Saturday, February 7, 1970, on page B-8.

Life As We Now Know It

Though families may go through devastating times, somehow, Time does heal and life moves on. It has to.

Frank Stevens’ family picked up, after his unexpected 1966 passing, and got back into the rhythm of life. Frank’s widow, Norma, found a full-time job with Mountain Bell. Her oldest son, Kelly, resumed school life, as did her other three children. Now in high school, Kelly struggled with his studies. Understandably, in those mid-teen years that, on their own, can yield much angst, Kelly seemed to lose his focus after losing his father.

Those family ties once again served to strengthen. Switching to a different school program, Kelly would stop by his mom’s office on his way home or during lunch breaks, just to talk. And Norma did her best to make the Stevens household a place where her children’s friends could gather. Eventually, the garage was converted into a practice room where Kelly and his friends became part of that quintessential sixties-era musical expression, forming their own garage band.

With his good friend Chris Davis, Kelly and two others pursued their dream of landing a recording contract. Playing anywhere they could—from live promotions at roller skating rinks to Air Force base events—the band took on a sound vaguely reminiscent of The Doors. The foursome, morphing with the comings and goings of those other two players, always had the constant of Kelly on bass and Chris on drums. Eventually, they cut a demo and headed to Nashville to seek their fortune.

And soon returned to Albuquerque. The Doors, it turns out, had already been discovered.

Photograph, top left: John Kelly Stevens. All other photographs of the band. Center right: Kelly standing in the middle, with his friend Chris Davis to the right. Center left: Kelly on far left, Chris on far right. In performance, Kelly at left on bass, Chris in background on drums. All photographs from private family collection.

A Widow’s Letter

Only five weeks after losing her husband, on March 12, 1966, Frank Stevens’ widow writes a long letter to her mother-in-law Agnes Tully Stevens in Chicago. As far as calendars go, five weeks can be a substantial chunk of time. When talking about a loss as sudden and significant this, it is as if the unendurable becomes immovable.

And yet, life goes on. News gets out, spreading ever farther as friends mention to acquaintances about the horrible wreck back in New Mexico. The love keeps pouring in, hoping—somehow—to make a difference.

 

Dear Mom, Pat + Mike,

            Received your letter today Mom, also Pat’s package with all the wonderful letters and cards, also Mutz sent theirs. Am so glad so many masses are being said for Steve…. 

Am sending a small picture, this was made 2 yrs ago last Dec. He looked younger, but the best picture he ever had made, the same photo hangs in the K. C. Hall in Alamogordo. I chose this one, at the time as it’s just like him. I have a large one for us Mom, as soon as I get the Ins. I’ll have a big one made for you.

Agnes Tully Stevens, a working widow herself, may be mentoring her recently-bereaved daughter-in-law regarding the stark financial realities of life in an era when Dad was the only bread-winner. The letter is full of numbers stacked this way and that, trying to stretch too few dollars into too many slots.

            Yes Mom I’ll always have to work, by the time I pay taxes, Ins., utility, food, clothing and school the V.A. and S. Security just wouldn’t do with four kids to clothe and give a very small allowance.

 

I thought I’d have enough to work part time but afraid not, also I feel I must save a little each mo. in case I would get ill or something.

The choices reflect personal priorities and respect for the dreams the couple had for their children’s futures. Sometimes, those choices look quite different in the cast of a harsher light.

 

I did get a new car, imagine Ed told you the good deal my friend gave me, but I just couldn’t see putting $300 in the V. W. and it being too small. Everett said this car will do me 5 yrs, what a laugh it’ll do 12 yrs. but I don’t mind just so I can raise our kids right and give them a good Catholic education.

But it’s not the money that weighs most heavily in this household—it’s the absence of Frank’s presence….

 

Sometimes I think I can’t stand being so alone, but I always pray and God helps me over the bad days. The Priests are always checking to be sure I’m doing alright, am so lucky Fr. Baca, and Fr. Bean are here, only wish you could meet them.

…or the reminders that, in some way, he is still there, shining through a child’s face…

I’m so glad I have him, he’s his Daddy all over again.

Understandably, for those four children, the difficult times continue to impact them. With a total range of ten years difference in their ages, each one has a different response to the loss. Though family and friends each give what comfort they can, this is a loss that will shape who they become.

 

The other children are doing fair…fallen down in their grades but their teachers say this is to be expected at a time like this. They’re good kids and breaks my heart to see them have these sad spells but only natural over for them to grieve over their Daddy. We try to remember the good times, as much as we can, we had with Steve.

            We’ve received over 400 card letters etc., from all over U.S. and overseas. Also a beautiful certificate from the president honoring Steve’s memory, this I’ll frame.

            I hope you’re feeling better Pat, I’ve remember you at mass ever day. Also all the family am so glad I have all my family, John’s been so good writing. Only wish some were here but realize that’s impossible.

The Solidarity of Community

Alongside the pain of sudden loss come many friends and neighbors, each in his or her own way seeking to somehow make things better. Frank Stevens’ neighbors in Albuquerque were just that way—showering the Stevens family with love and support once the news got out about the horrible wreck.

Frank’s oldest brother, John Kelly, shared some of that scene in his letter home to their mother in Chicago. Writing to Agnes Tully Stevens only days after the funeral, he recounted several acts of generosity that impressed him.

Frank + Norma have the best friends + neighbors that any one any where could ever have. 

Even neighbors that didn’t know them except by sight were helping or offering help. One man who knew the kids but not Norma told Norma that if she needed any money to come to him; another neighbor who manages a Ford agency loaned us a new, nine passenger station wagon + fixed the brakes on Norma’s VW + wouldn’t take a penny. I don’t know what we would have done without his car for transportation.

It was a beautiful funeral – two priests on altar, children + nuns from school + the church was full. Frank had more friends than I ever thought possible – Spanish, Italian, you name it.

It seems almost an afterthought when John Kelly added the details of his brother’s burial. Perhaps it was owing to the sixty-mile-long drive from the church in Albuquerque to the National Cemetery in Santa Fe. He got it wrong about Santa Fe, though—the nation’s highest state capital is 7,199 feet above sea level, quite a change from John Kelly’s accustomed elevation in California of barely over 400 feet. No wonder it seemed like bitter cold.

Oh yes –

The grave side services were impressive – military funeral with a rifle salute + taps by the honor guard. Norma has a plot reserved right beside him.

They folded the flag + presented it to her.

It was bitterly cold, snow on the ground and a strong, raw wind blowing. Everyone shivered. Santa Fe is up around 3000 ft. I believe. There were very few flowers but lots of mass cards.

The Solidarity of Family

Once the news was out about the unexpected loss of Frank Stevens—husband, father, brother—family started heading from all points to Albuquerque. Funerals are always painful times, but somehow in the misery of the loss, there is a sweetness in the supportive camaraderie of family and close friends. We often think of funerals as unwanted events, something to avoid—and yet, it is at those specific bittersweet moments that family members minister to each other. The therapy of memories is so powerful a healer to those who are grieving, and yet, those remembrances cannot work their wonder if we don’t allow the memories to be coaxed out into the open. Funerals are times when those needed memories can breathe life back into our sorrowing souls.

Frank’s brothers from the west coast were there at his funeral to lend their support, as was his youngest brother, and his brother Ed, still in Chicago. Only a few days later, already returned home to California, Frank’s oldest brother John Kelly was writing to his mom, sending Agnes news of the week she had missed. The visit with the bereaved family had done its good, but there was so much more needed for the future.

 

                                                                  Feb. 10, 1966

Dear Ma, Pat + Mike—

Bill + I arrived home safely.

Max fixed chop suey for dinner (very good) and I left immediately after dinner 5:35 P. M. and was home at 8 P.M.

Norma + the kids seemed pretty cheerful when Bill + I left but she will have some bad moments at times – especially after she is alone.

How much like many funeral visits in so many families was John’s observation in his letter that certain members of this family “took it very hard.” The report that “Sunday night when the family and close friends were allowed to see Frank’s remains was the hardest time” is so similar an experience to that which so many have had to endure. John told his mother about the children crying “so heart brokenly,” but it wasn’t just the young ones who were struggling with this loss. The “baby” of the previous generation, Frank’s youngest brother Gerald, struggled, too. John mentioned to his mom

Chip came in Monday night to the mortuary (his plane was late) when the Rosary was almost over. He was in a bad, emotional state—didn’t make a scene of course but cried like a little kid.

There is nothing so difficult to absorb as the sudden, irrevocable loss of someone you love.

News Travels Home

Back home in Chicago, Agnes Tully Stevens—the mom whose lifelong habit of saving family documents provided me with the material to start recording these stories—received the news of Frank’s passing as only a heart-broken mother could. I have heard mothers assert that it is harder to lose a child than it is to lose even a spouse. At this point, Frank’s mother was approaching seventy-eight years of age, but that would hardly dull the impact of this loss.

Yet, with dutiful precision, Agnes clipped and saved the local news article mentioning the loss of this hometown boy. A handwritten note at the top of the clipping noted the publication name and date, most likely the Chicago-area Southtown Economist. Another note at the side mentioned, “Pat wasn’t there,” an ever-present reminder that newspapers sometimes don’t get things right. Indeed, this one February 13^th article failed to fully represent the facts with everything from a typo in the New Mexico city of Frank’s last moments, to the mistaken February 18 date given for the funeral.

Details like these seem important in retrospect to those of us researching family history, but for those undergoing those days, deep in the midst of suffering the loss itself, these things matter not one bit. The only change anyone would wish in that case would be to erase the very fact that this tragedy had occurred in the first place.

And there is only one Editor who could accomplish that.

 

            Francis X. Stevens, 41, of Albuquerque, N. M., a native Southwest Side resident and retired Air Force master sergeant, was killed Feb. 4 in an auto accident at Almogordo [sic], N. M.

            Requiem Mass was offered Feb. 18 in Queen of Heaven church, Albuquerque, and interment was in the National Cemetery in Santa Fe. Attending the rites were his brother, Edward, 8034 S. Paulina st., and his sister, Mrs. Patricia Kelly, 8620 S. Parkside ave., Stickney.

            Stevens had lived in Albuquerque since his retirement from the Air Force two years ago. He also had served in the Navy in World War II. The Stevens family home was at 507 W. Garfield blvd. He was a graduate of St. Rita High school.

            He leaves his widow, Norma, and four children; his mother, Mrs. William (Agnes) Stevens, Stickney; four brothers and one sister including John, William, Gerald, Edward, and Mrs. Kelly.

All That’s Left Are Questions

That Friday night in early February, Frank Stevens stopped on the long drive home after work to put in a call to his wife, Norma. He was on his way, he told her. It was just a matter of that three hour stretch of highway. But he’d be there. Another week was over.

How the next call came in at the Stevens household in Albuquerque, I don’t know, but it was from a stranger somewhere near Alamogordo, where the family used to live—not anywhere near the neighborhood they now called home. The announcement, so unexpected, must have left more questions than answers. And so that long first evening began unraveling.

Of course, by the next morning, the local papers had carried the awful news. Somehow, neighbors got the word, as well as the church. Everyone was so supportive, so sorry to hear, so wishing they could do something to make things better, to make things…just go away. But it wouldn’t go away, this fact that someone was never coming home again.

By the following day, the two Albuquerque newspapers carried the obituary announcement:

Francis X. Stevens, 41, of 2800 Cuervo Dr. NE, died Friday night north of Tularosa as a result of an auto accident. He is survived by….

There was a mention of his wife, his four children still at home, his four brothers—two in California, and two still in the Stevens home town of Chicago along with their mother and sister.

That too-brief rehearsal of his pertinent associations followed:

He was a member of the Queen of Heaven Catholic Church, and was a past Grand Knight of the Knights of Columbus in Alamogordo. He came to Albuquerque three years ago. He had been the manager of El Paso Sonotone. He also was a retired senior master sergeant in the USAF.

In the blur, the routines of custom and liturgy provided structure to support mourning hearts.

STEVENS--Rosary for Francis X. Stevens will be recited this evening at 7:30 in Fern Chapel of Strong-Thorne Mortuary. Funeral Mass will be celebrated Tuesday morning at 9 at the Queen of Heaven Church. Interment in National Cemetery at Santa Fe at 11:30 a.m. with Father Paul M. Baca officiating. Pallbearers: Members of the Knights of Columbus Lodge.

No News Is Good News

It was a typical newspaper article, the kind you’d likely see any day of the week, glance at, then move on to more compelling headlines. Following after yet another Friday night, it was all the more mundane. Besides, the state had had a rash of highway collisions, and this only added more statistics to an already-unaddressed pile of government data.

But there was someone out there who wouldn’t want to see this headline.

The Associated Press story read, “City Man Among Three Road Fatalities.” Despite the AP credit, it was a local story that ran on the front page of the Albuquerque Journal on February 5, 1966.

After a long week at work, making the long trip home on a Friday night along that monotonous U.S. Route 54, someone’s dad missed a curve in the road.

            Three more victims, one of them a former Otero County sheriff and another an Albuquerque resident, have been added to the state's 1966 highway fatality toll.

            Latest victim was Francis X. Stevens, 41, of 2800 Cuervo Dr. NE, Albuquerque, who died in a one-car accident Friday night, 7 miles north of Tularosa on US-54, State Policemen Felix Work and Neal Curran reported.

            Stevens, a salesman, was driving a late-model station-wagon when he failed to negotiate a curve. His vehicle left the roadway on the right hand side and then skidded across the highway to the left side.

            Officers said the car crashed down a 12 foot embankment, rolled 2 1/2 times and came to rest on its top. Stevens died of head and internal injuries and was dead on arrival at an Alamogordo hospital, officers said.