Joan Reehil Obituary

Joan C. Reehil Obituary REEHIL, JOAN CATHERINE (nee Nolan), age 89, on March 2, 2019, passed peacefully at home surrounded by her family. Loving wife of the late Peter J.; beloved mother of Mary (the late Ted) Curry, Ann (Bill) McCauley, Veronica, and Ruth (Chuck) Jung; devoted grandmother of Aislinn and Nora Curry, Lauren and Kieran McCauley, and Matthew, Timothy, and Peter Jung; sister of Warren Nolan and Kenneth Nolan, and the late James Nolan, Mary Koch, Robert Nolan, and Frank Nolan.

Aunt Marie Obituary

Marie Nolan Obituary NOLAN Marie Theresa Nolan R.N. was born in Corona, Queens New York on April 23, 1932 to Carmel and Valentino Bisagni who preceded her in death. She passed Sunday, January 6, Feast of the Epiphany. She is survived by her beloved husband of 51 years, LTC Kenneth Nolan, USA(Ret), and by her devoted sons Patrick (Debbi), Major Denis, US Air Force (Ellen), Thomas (Suzanne). She was Mema to her cherished grandchildren, the joy of her life: Jon, Justin, James, Emily, Abby, Erin and Kylie. Surviving siblings in New York are sister Rosemary Roseto, brothers Andrew, Tino, Joseph and Stephen Bisagni. Marie was the best of the best as a thirteen year Recovery Room nurse at Northeast Baptist Hospital, retiring to care for her elderly parents in her home for nearly ten years. An Army wife, she was exceedingly generous and loving to all she met and was loved in return. A skilled homemaker, she kept an Italian kitchen in the tradition of her mother. An active longtime member of her parish church and choir, she was given to an intense prayer life and was gifted by the graces of a happy death by her Savior surrounded by her famil

Aunt Rosemarie Obituary

Rosemarie Williams Nolan of Wanaque, age 89, passed away on Thursday June 15, 2023. She was born in Maplewood, NJ, and attended Montclair State Teachers College. She was one of the first six women to study at Notre Dame College, where she met her future husband; she and Francis (Frank) Joseph Nolan wed in 1959, and were married till his death in 1999—they lived in Huntington, NY and Montauk, NY. This stylish, confident, well-traveled professional woman was a math teacher for many years. She went to Hofstra University Law School at age 40, then became campus lawyer for Stony Brook University on Long Island, retiring in 1989. Rosemarie was a brilliant painter, and designed and built several stunning homes. Loving mother of late daughter Lisa Marie Nolan, daughter Joy Nolan of Brooklyn, son Michael Francis Nolan and his wife the late Jennifer Lee of Hopewell Junction, NY. Beloved longtime partner of Robert (Bob) Horowitz at Wanaque Reserve. Dear sister of John Williams of Toms River and Terrese W. Martin of Monroe, NJ. Grandmother of William Nolan, Eleanor Nolan, Francesca Nolan Cantor, and Bailey Nolan.

Aunt Marie's Obituary

Marie Nolan Obituary Marie Nolan January 17, 2020 Marie Nolan, 86, of Marietta, NY passed away January 17, 2020 at St. Joseph's Hospital in Syracuse. Marie was a retired health educator who will be remembered as a loving wife, mother, grandmother and friend. She passed away on Friday in the presence of family. Born Mary Ann McNichol on December 3, 1933 in Brooklyn, she moved to Queens Village in 1945. In 1956, she married her husband, Warren C. Nolan, before settling in West Islip for 30 years. Marie graduated from Mary Louis Academy in Jamaica, Queens in 1951. She also attained a B.S. and M.A. in health education from SUNY at Stony Brook, while caring for four children. Marie worked for both the Arthritis Foundation and American Cancer Society for over 20 years and was honored several times for her dedicated service. She was also a long-time volunteer at the Marcellus Public Library. Marie loved reading and spending time with family and friends at Otisco Lake. She also enjoyed escaping to the beach at Fire Island with her husband, Warren. Marie is preceded in death by her parents, Elizabeth and James McNichol. Surviving Marie are her loving husband of 63 years, Warren C. Nolan, a long-time teacher and school administrator; her three daughters, Mary (David) Hall, Elizabeth (Fred Zolna) Nolan and Eileen (Andy) Bryceland; her son, Christopher (Lisa) Nolan; her brother, James (Joan) McNichol; and 8 grandchildren.

Uncle Warren's Obituary

Warren Nolan Obituary Warren C. Nolan January 31, 2021 Warren C. Nolan, 88, of Marietta, NY, a retired high school history teacher and school administrator, passed away on Sunday, January 31, 2021. Warren will be remembered as a loving husband, father, grandfather, brother, and uncle. Born on July 3, 1932 in Queens, NY, Warren married his high school sweetheart, Marie McNichol, in 1956 before settling in West Islip for 30 years. They then moved to beautiful Otisco Lake where they spent the next 25 years and enjoyed many sunsets together. They most recently lived in the Nottingham in Jamesville, NY, where they made new friends amongst their fellow residents and staff. Warren graduated from Regis High School (1950) and went on to receive a B.A. in History from St. Peter's University (1954) and an M.A. in History from the University of Notre Dame (1956). After serving in the Army Reserve (1957), Mr. Nolan worked as a teacher and high school administrator for Long Island schools for over 30 years and directed the CNY Civil Liberties Union in Syracuse, NY. He was also a devoted parishioner at St. Patrick's Church in Otisco, NY and a Board member of the Friends of the Marcellus Library. Those who own homes on Otisco Lake will also remember Warren's tireless and successful efforts to bring city water to the lake. Warren loved reading and spending time with his late wife, Marie, at their home on Otisco Lake. He also loved telling stories of his life to his eight grandchildren, other family, and friends. He had an uncanny ability to understand current events and stayed sharply curious until his last day. He and Marie enjoyed their life at the Nottingham in recent years and he appreciated the Nottingham community before and after she passed one year ago. He is preceded in death by his wife, Marie; his parents, James and Mary; brothers, James Nolan, Robert Nolan, Frank Nolan; sisters, Veronica Nolan (infant), Marie Koch, Joan Reehil; and great-granddaughter, Caroline Griffin-Nolan. Surviving Mr. Nolan are his three daughters: Mary Hall (David), Elizabeth Nolan (Fred), and Eileen Bryceland (Andrew); his son, Christopher Nolan (Lisa); his brother, Kenneth Nolan (Mercedes); his brother-in-law James McNichol (Joan); and eight grandchildren: Daniel and Robert Griffin-Nolan, Katherine and Andrew Hall, Andrew and Emily Bryceland, and Joseph and Maggie Nolan.

She Looked at Tempests and Was Never Shaken

I have shared 25-year-old Katherine's tribute  to my mom many times, but I never get tired of it.

The dark-haired girl in the photograph, wearing her first communion shawl and holding her prayer book, looks to me like she can't possibly be only eight years old. She also can't possibly be only eighteen in the high school yearbook picture--she's much too grown up looking. And she certainly can't have been younger than I am now when these wedding pictures were taken:

This is partly because she was always tall for her age, and an earlier developer than I was. But I think it's mostly because the girl in these pictures has the same face as my grandmother. Grandma Mary as an eight year old girl, a high school senior, or a twenty three year old bride, just does not compute. She'll always look like my grandma to me.

The same thing happened when I started writing this. I know that Mary Virginia
Koch was one of the most generous and strongest people I've ever met. I know
how much all of, and especially me and my mom and my sisters, owe to her.  But when I try to come up with specific memories to show these things—I knew it wouldn't be possible to do her justice, but I'm not even coming close. Instead I'm coming up with stories about oddly shaped Christmas trees with plastic disco ball ornaments, and shelves full of "No Frills" brand products, and a series of cats named "cat". And what set me tearing up was not seeing her in the hospital--Grandma struggling for breath in a hospital bed does not compute any more than Grandma as an eight year old computes--but seeing a bright orange volkswagen bus on the Massachusetts Turnpike last Tuesday. 

I can't possibly describe the woman she was, so I'll leave that to someone else. I knew her as my Grandma, and I knew her best when I was a kid or a teenager, and that seems to be the only way I can write about her. So. Here is the best composite sketch I can come up with:

She enters the room, and calls out “greetings, greetings.” (Or, if it’s our house in Baldwin, she shakes her head, says “chaos, chaos”, and promptly misplaces her purse.) 

She is always, always moving—that’s the first thing you have to know about her. This occasionally verges on the absurd--she used to do laps around McDonald’s by the side of the highway on long trips, and I remember Aunt Sherry once whispering to me “right, no more coffee for you”, as Grandma completed her fourth circuit of the kitchen and stairs on a rainy day in New Woodstock. And when she breaks more bones in the course of a year than the typical casualty rate of a Koch ski trip, or you’re trying to pack up your college doom room, it’s downright unnerving. 

But for the most part it’s a very good thing. I don’t know how many countries she went to, or how many lobbying trips to Washington D.C., but I remember our trip to France together; and her descriptions of how Ted Kennedy’s new wife seemed to be doing him good, and which Congressmen were decent guys in spite of being Republicans. And I’ve more than lost count of the times she took my sisters and me to the pool, or the beach, or to visit one of our relatives. But I’ll never forget that the way back from Mark and Maura’s house requires pulling into the Croton Library parking lot and doing a U turn. (At this point, of course, it’s partly because Uncle Mark refuses to tell us the alternate route.) 

She also took us into New York City a lot, but the trip to Manhattan I remember the best was the least successful. I was in eighth or ninth grade, and Patricia was in fourth or fifth. Grandma took the two of us and my sister’s best friend into New York for Patricia’s birthday. We were going to Central Park and a museum, I think—I’m not sure because we never got there. Grandma’s route to New York was even more circuitous than the way home from Croton. The Long Island Railroad was too expensive, and parking in Manhattan was right out, so she would drive to a municipal parking lot in Queens where you could park all day for $2, and then walk ten minutes or so to the subway—I don’t remember which station, somewhere near the end of the E line. This time, though, our meter was broken. I suggested we move to another space, but she was not willing to waste those quarters, so she wrote a note and taped it to the parking meter. Unfortunately, in the confusion, she left her car keys sitting on the driver’s seat—she realized this somewhere under the streets of Manhattan.

We turned around, and no one had broken the window or stolen the car. But here, I thought, was an object lesson for Grandma—moderation in all things, including frugality. 

She’d have to pay for a locksmith, which cost much more than the extra quarters or, God forbid, a train ticket. 

She did no such thing. Instead she asked a rough looking young man on a nearby sidewalk to help her break into her car. He was happy to assist. When he could not get the door open, he called over a friend. Who said, after a few more unsuccessful attempts to pick the lock, that what they really needed was a crowbar, but since he didn’t have his around and Grandma was not crazy about that, they’d better ask another friend. Who said, and I quote, “what we really need is a Puerto Rican.” 

I don’t know whether they found a Puerto Rican, and I don’t remember how long we stood there, Grandma smiling encouragingly and offering occasional advice, or how many neighborhood kids were debating the best way to break into a Toyota Camry by the end—it’s probably somewhat exaggerated in my memory.  I can tell you that in the end, the simple yet elegant coat-hanger-through-the-window-to-pull-up-the-button-technique did the trick. The lock suffered some damage from the good samaritans’ enthusiastic efforts, but you could get the door open more often than not. And from then on, we parked in the driveway of a high school friend of Grandma’s—10 minutes further away from a subway station even further down the E line, but $2.00 cheaper than the municipal lot and much less risk of a break in.  

(As I was writing all of that, I realized---it’s not quite accurate to say she was always moving. I just remembered the nights in Henry Street when she would tuck us in, and tell us to lie still and imagine we were floating on a cloud. There were also her “yoga,” excuse me, ‘yoger” exercises. But if I ever want to finish this, I should move on, so….)

She was incredibly smart, and incredibly interested in the world around her—whether it was the history of the China lobby or when any of her nieces, nephews and grandchildren would finally, in her words “find yourself a mate”.  

She also had the strongest faith of anyone I’ve ever known. Maybe it was that combination, that fierce intellect and that certain belief and trust in God, that made her so strong. Much more often than not her beliefs coincided with the Catholic Church, but when they differed she was not shy about saying so…On most of the many nights I slept over at the house on Henry Street, I wore a polyester blend, 1970s issue T-shirt that said in glittery bubble letters “When God Created Man, She Was Only Joking.” And I remember her telling me about sneaking in inclusive language to her frequent readings at St. Martha’s, much to the new parish priest’s chagrin. 

And on the much more frequent occasions when her children and grandchildren did something she disapproved of—she let us know in no uncertain terms, but there was never a single moment’s doubt that she loved and accepted us anyway. I’ll always think of her when I read these lines from Shakespeare’s 116^th sonnet::

                              “Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken.”

I know, it’s a love poem—and a truly bizarre choice for a description of one’s grandmother. But—getting back to photographs, and with apologies for the embarrassment this may cause certain unnamed relatives of mine--I defy you to find a better or funnier illustration of Shakespeare’s words than this picture of Grandma Mary, Grandpa Joe, and their wayward offspring in the early 1970s:

She was in many ways a third parent to me. I think I’ve spent more time with my husband at this point, but I’m not at all sure of that. She was someone who could be counted on absolutely, without question or condition. She looked on tempests and was never shaken, and I’m not only talking about my uncles’ hairdos when I say that. I don’t think I’ve ever owed as much to, or cared as much about, anyone to whom I expressed it so little. But she was not the most demonstrative person either, so maybe she knew. I lack her certainty about God and heaven, but I hope very much that she knows now. 

Was Mom Dad's One and Only?

I've always wondered if Dad was involved with any other girls before he met mom. Here is my answer:

"Sweetheart, we are both frauds, the phlegmatic Joe and the   calm, unemotional Mary. I remember my mother telling me once  upon a time that I wasn't as hardboiled as I wanted to be, that someday a girl would get under my hard shell and discover I am all soft inside.  I remember too that I laughed at that. But  now darling that hard shell has melted completely. I speak of a million kisses to be exchanged between me and my Mary,  I  who have never kissed anyone , even my mother and sisters since I was a baby. I probably never grew up, Mary, beyond the tough guy stage which all little boys pass through. You know, the time when they think girls are sissies, and a real boy leaves all that kissing and stuff to girls.

Darling, you've taken on a hard job in falling in love with me. When I look back, I find it strange that I knew I loved you, Mary beloved. I guess it was because my  emotions were unloosed in a tidal wave when I discovered you, Mary.  Sweetheart, I don't want to give  you the impression that before I met you, I believed that girls would have no part in my life.  Looking at it rationally, I  knew that of course they would. That was the trouble. I looked at it rationally. Naturally as I got older, I discovered that girls were nice to know, that I liked to talk to them, though usually I was too shy to. And I dreamed of being in love, but it was always a well-behaved dream--a dream in which I always knew what I was doing. Because I knew that falling in love was something one did deliberately.

It would be simple. I would meet sometime a girl  whom I was attracted to and I would fall in love with her.  I never really considered the girl's side of it. That's why darling the miracle of  your loving me still seems unbelievable to me.  When I did fall in love with you, Mary, it was and is so  much of a complete surrender of everything I am or ever hope to me, I don't know the right words Mary, so I'll begin again.  When I did fall in love with you Mary, and learned what being in love really is, I couldn't conceive how you could feel the same towards me, sweetheart. I turned "can't"  to" couldn't ," Mary, because my heart seems to know that your loving me makes my love for  you more complete and because I love you, your love is complete.

Dearest. I've learned these things from my heart; up to a year ago, I thought the mind was the only teacher. Now I  know  how wonderful are the lessons the heart teaches the mind.  Beauty as a mental abstraction is something cold, but when beauty is perceived through the love of the heart, the beautiful becomes a colorful living reality.

Yes, darling , just knowing that we love each other gives us so much. It changes our world; it transforms us. I''m like you Mary; I'm afraid to think of the happiness that will be ours when we are together in our love. The happiness I am filled with when I receive and read one of  your letters; the happiness that would be mine were I to receive all the letters  you've written and will write to me all at once, would be just a promise of  my happiness when I will be with you, my Mary, my own beloved Mary. Yet when I open one of your letters, darling, I can't conceive of being any happier than I am right at that instant. "

Warren's Tribute to His Sister, Marie

April 11, 2004

MY SISTER, MARIE

She was one of the brightest stars of our generation, World War II bride, mother of six, grandmother of fifteen, community activist, teacher, founding pillar of St. Martha's Church in Uniondale, L.I., and finally, a volunteer lobbyist for the Alzheimer's Association in Albany and Washington.

She was my big sister. For us, her five brothers and her sister, Joan, she was always, "Marie".

In my first memory of her she is crying, doubtless frustrated by the antics of her three rambunctious younger brothers, Warren, Frank and Ken. We were eleven, thirteen and fifteen years younger than Marie.

Though she was an accomplished scholar at Our Lady of Wisdom Academy in Ozone Park, our father's death in 1939 made it impossible for her to consider college. She went to work, helping to support her widowed mother and five younger siblings. In the evening, she took courses, eventually overburdening herself and suffering some health setbacks.

A young man she dated in 1940 had a car with a rumble seat. Before we knew what cool meant, it was cool to go to the World's Fair in Flushing Meadow in the rumble seat of a coupe. The Trylon and Perisphere were enduring symbols of our youth. The young man did not survive the war which began for the U.S. in December, 1941.

At some point we learned tha Marie had met Joe Koch while on a summer vacation in the Adirondacks. Then he was in the Army and there were endless letters back and forth. Suddenly, he was coming home on furlough and she was to be married. It was March 6, 1944. She was just twenty-two. He called her Mary.

Joe Koch had four sisters, Mary, Jane, Agnes and Peggy. They descended upon our simple 220th Street home in Queens Village and transformed it into a wedding palace. As there was rationing, and meat was scarce, we younger ones were sent out to canvass the neighborhood for red coupons which, with a bit of money, and some luck, would provision the wedding feast. With certainty there were also preserved vegetables and fruits from our previous summer's victorygarden.

My memory is of a bright, sunny day with a distinct chill in the air. My brother Robert, 17, handsome in his blue Xavier uniform with white gloves, standing in for James who was aboard the USS Biloxi in the Pacific, escorted the beautiful bride down the aisle of SS. Joachim and Anne Church. Later, in our backyard, I recall seeing our white haired pastor, Father Herchenroder. He had been a poker playing pal of my father, and knew many of the Nolans from the Brooklyn days. As the celebration dwindled down, a few of us with more serious
purpose adjourned across the street to engage the Gallic boys in a game of marbles. Which reminds me that one of the Gallics, Denny, had a serious crush on my sister and would come calling for her. He was about ten at the time of her wedding.

As Joe went back to his military duties, Marie continued to live with us. We younger ones learned that the great mystery of life was unfolding, and that there was to be a baby in the summer of 1945. For some reason we had a piano in our living room. Maybe James played a little, and Aunt Anna some, but there were no virtuosos in our family. Soon my big sister, awaiting her first born, began to play over, and over and over again, "Meet me in St. Louis, Looie, meet me at the Fair", from the popular 1944 movie of that name. Hers was a
small repertoire. We never heard "The Trolley Song", "The Boy Next Door", or "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" from the same film.

In May of 1945. Jim and Kay were married. At the reception in the Belmont Plaza hotel on Lexington Avenue, a family picture was taken. My very pregnant "big" sister hid behind her little brothers.

Mary Jo arrived on July 17, 1945. I believe by this time her Dad was in Europe, probably beginning his hunt for "Bambi" in Paris. And we had a little sister. Can boys thirteen, eleven and nine really be uncles? As I made my way through eighth grade at SS. Joachim and Anne in 1945-46, it was my morning ritual to spend time playing with Mary Jo before heading off to school. She was pretty cute.

When the war ended in August, 1945, Joe did not return as quickly as other soldiers. Most of his service had been stateside, and he had not accumulated as many points as others who had been in combat zones. When he did come home, he squeezed into our family abode at 220th Street, living there throughout 1946 and into 1947, commuting to his job wiith the Metropolitan Life Insurance Company in Manhattan via bus and subway.

Housing was scarce after the war. Early in 1947, Joe and Marie found a prewar Cape Cod style house in a place called Uniondale on the Nassau frontier. For us New York City sophisticates, anything east of Belmont Park was the habitat of potato farmers and clamdiggers. Both Joe and Marie began to exhibit some of those Long Island farming and gardening instincts, so it was great that they had purchased an oversized lot which brought them much happiness over the
years, and provided ample room for large family gatherings. The address was827 Henry Street.

We Nolans no longer owned a car so it was a two bus trip to Uniondale, first via Bee Line to Hempstead, and then by some Okielike conveyance along Front Street to Uniondale Avenue. I recall being pressed into service to scrape and paint the bathroom before they moved in. Looking out that bathroom window at night, you could see a few lights twinkling on far off Front Street. There seemed nothing in between. It was a pretty desolate place, but it was connected to civilization via telephone, IV6-5607. Over the years, I must have called
that number a thousand times.

By the early 1950s my three oldest siblings were contributing mightily to the postwar baby boom. Their progeny was color coded by family: blondes, brunettes and redheads. My wife Marie and I produced twins in the biggest baby boom year, 1957. With the marriages of Joan and Peter, Frank and Rosemarie, and Ken and Marie swelling the total, Mother soon had thirty-one grandchildren.

In the 1950s and 1960s our family celebrations were still focused on 220th Street. At Thanksgiving and Christmas, we would arrive in relays. It was on these occasions that James would put together family entertainments featuring the grandchildren. After Mother sold the old homestead in 1969 and moved to a Uniondale apartment, Joe and Marie began to host the family gatherings on the holidays and for special events during the summer. My sister had an amazing ability to bring together large numbers of people with little pretense or fuss,
creating a joyous, happy, relaxed time for all. These gatherings continued through the 1970s, 1980s and 1990s. Her organization of the 1998 one hundreth anniversary celebration of Mother's birthday topped all her parties and had to be held on the grounds of a local church to accomodate all the Nolans and related families. The one dotter, two dotter, three dotter terminology that we use to distinguish the generations was a product of that happy family event.

In the 1960s Marie graduated from Nassau Community College and continued on for her Hofstra degree. She told me that she was considering becoming an elementary teacher. With apology to all elementary teachers, I told my sister that she needed to be teaching at the secondary level. With her deep and diverse intellectual interests that was clearly the place for her. She went on to her master's degree at Hofstra University and began to teach social studies at Uniondale High School. Some years later, she invited me to speak to her colleagues at Uniondale on the subject of a school-within-a-school project they were organizing. I had done an evaluation of a similar community school at Herricks High School. It was hard to tell if she was more proud of me or I of her. It was amusing to see two of my Regis teachers, her Uniondale colleagues, in the group.

Mother was always amazed at having produced children who were so widely distributed across the political spectrum in their views. Marie, Frank and I were the liberal caucus, sometimes referred to as "Commonweal Catholics". I still read Commonweal, but now I stand alone, Have mercy, Ken.

In the late 1970s, the time came when Mother could no longer function on her own. Marie and Joe took her into their home. While carrying on an amazing variety of social, community and church related activities, Marie was able to provide our Mother with the best possible quality of life until her death in January, 1985. Perhaps it was her involvement in Mother's care that made her slow to recognize the changes that were taking place in her husband, Joe. He was
exhibiting symptoms later diagnosed as Alzheimer's disease, and so she entered upon another period of devoted care for a loved one, this time her life's partner.

From their earliest days in Uniondale, Marie and Joe had been part of the Catholic community which founded St. Martha's parish. Relations were not always smooth. There came a time when she was part of a group locking horns with the then pastor who wanted to knock down the old church and build something grander. Her group was successful. My sister was deeply involved in all aspects of her parish, serving as a lector and as a member of the parish council among
other activities. At various times of her life she was a daily communicant, walking the five or six blocks to the church. On the half-dozen or more occasions when my wife and I attended Mass with her there, she seemed to be greeted by half the congregation. As the community changed, St. Martha's served a more diverse population. Both in her church and community activities my sister was dedicated to maintaining Uniondale as a balanced, integrated community.

After Joe's death in 1987, Marie became a leader in the fight against Alzheimer's disease, serving as a member of the board of the Long Island Alzheimer's Association, conducting support groups, gathering her clan to participate in the annual march, and lobbying for funds each year in both Albany and Washington. Even after we moved from West Islip to Otisco Lake in 1994, she would summon us each fall to participate in the Alzheimer's march. My daughter Eileen remembers that about the time the cherry blossoms were blooming around the Tidal
Basin in Washington, her Aunt Marie would sweep into town to lobby for Congressional support to fund Alzheimer's research, bunk with her for one night, and share a meal at some ethnic restaurant with Eileen and my son Chris. Marie sensitized me to the Alzheimer's problem. Last summer I became a participant in a national study to determine the possible effectiveness of anti-inflammatory drugs in inpeding the progress of Alzheimer's disease.

About two years ago we took Marie to visit James at his home in Ridge. They sat opposite each other, holding hands. I do not recall any verbal communication between them, but who can know what is passing through the minds of a brother and sister who, after eighty years of shared family life, are meeting for the last time.

As her health declined Marie benefitted from the wonderful care given her by her family caregivers. Michael, Sherry and Willa live about forty minutes east of us so while my sister was with them we were able to visit her and see the loving care which they provided. Willa, about five at the time, was in a role reversal with her grandmother, watching over her and cautioning her when necessary.

My sister would often joke about a paper she had written at Hofstra, "I Lived  with Twelve Men". She meant her five brothers, her five sons, her father and her husband. With Mary Jo's recent marriage, a thirteenth man came into my sister's life, Andy Graves. As Marie became less mobile, and less and less able to communicate, Andy and Mary Jo devoted all their energies to her care. All of us in her widely extended family are deeply grateful to them for their extraordinary efforts in caring for the person we all loved so much.

When we saw Marie two weeks ago at Jim's wake, we were elated at her response to Eileen's baby. Her eyes sparkled, and she seemed thrilled to see little Andrew, making the kind of cooing sounds adults use to communicate with infants. It gave us hope that she would be with us a while more, but it was not to be.

To Mary Jo and Richard, Stephen and Michael, Peter and Mark, let me say, in my brother Bob's words, your mother was an extraordinary woman. She was a  teacher and model for us all, the exemplar of a modern, educated, Christian woman who was a great mother and grandmother, an accomplished professional educator, and a spirited activist and leader in the affairs of her church and community.

And to you, dear sister, your lively voice is quieted, and your exciting life's journey has come to an end. Leave it to you to pick Good Friday for a dramatic exit. You will live on in the hearts and minds of all of us who have loved you so dearly. Hopefully, you will light the way for us to follow in your heavenly path when we are called.

Love to all our family,
Warren

Happy Birthday, Mom

My mom was born in 1921  Here are some of the birthday  and mother's day cards I wrote her over the years:

August 2000

Today is my mom's 79th Birthday.  I hope we can celebrate her 80th next year, like we celebrated  Grandma Nolan's birthday, with a big family reunion.

My mom has always amazed me.  This has been one of her most amazing years ever.  With incredible grace and courage, she has handled all the trials of this year--her pelvic fracture, her sternum fracture, her Parkinson's diagnosis, Stephen's illness, my divorce, Richard's job loss.  The optimism, flexibility, and courage she is demonstrating in preparing to leave 827 Henry Street is terrific.  

I have always been tempted by the idea of writing my mom's life history as a study of the changing conditions of women in the 20th century.  I hope her saga will continue well into the 21st century.

I usually write my mom a sentimental birthday card  and Mother's Day card each year.  I want to share with you some of the things I have written over the years.

May 1985

  "I am so glad we decided to come back to share our lives with you.  Being able to call you almost every day and see you several times a week is even more precious than I thought it would be.  I so appreciate your calm good sense, your ability to put my wildly fluctuating emotions into perspective, your constant support.  This is your first Mother's Day without your own mother.  I can imagine how desolate I would feel.  I need you as an intellectual companion, the only person I know who reads the same books I do.  One reason I couldn't tolerate Maine was that I was 450 miles away from my best woman friend who was also my mother.

"No doubt you will enjoy watching your difficult adolescent daughter handle adolescence from the other side.  No doubt we will gain many insights into our relationship watching my struggles with my daughters.  One of my favorite fantasies is that we should write a book together on mothers and daughters.  

"I love you more than I can say, but I will keep trying to say it." 

August 1993.

  "I wish I could think of an original way to tell   you how much I love you and how grateful I am for all you do to make it possible for me to fulfill my dreams.  You've always believed in me and been willing to invest love, time, and money in me when I was pessimistic about myself.

August 1994

"I wish I could find words to express my deep love, gratitude and appreciation to the most loving, forgiving woman I know.  I want you to know that I will always be there for you as you've been there for me, no matter what the future holds.  You are the most splendid example of aging well I would want my daughters to have.  I hope you realize how deeply you are loved, cherished, and marveled at by all of us.  Sometimes we tease you, but we always listen to your loving words of wisdom and experience.

August 1995.

"Long ago I ran out of adequate words to convey the depths of my love, admiration, and gratitude.  Maybe I should look through poetry books, but I suspect poems about mothers would be inappropriately sentimental.  No one knows better than you how far removed from simple sentimentality mother love truly is.

May 2000

"I can never thank you enough for all your love, commitment, patience, understanding, supreme generosity.  But I hope you will accept my giving you a little bit of the tremendous gifts you have given me.  I'm really looking foward to our getting closer as we move in together."

Happy Birthday best of mothers.

Love 

Mary Jo

Joe Koch's Autobiography--Part I

At her request, Dad began to tell mom the story of his life in installments. It is very school and work centered, with very little about his family or personal life.

2/15/43

I can't postpone it any longer, so here goes.  Chapter I --I was born of the traditional poor but honest parents who decided that it would take six more to make up for their first born. At the moment of my birth I filled my lungs and didn't stop crying until I was 18 months old. According to my mother I did take time out for eating but very little for sleeping. The constant exercise was good for me, for I was one of those chubby infants. The next 4 1/1 years I spoke scarcely a sound; in fact some people still call me quiet.  I have a vague recollection of cutting and pasting papers in kindergarten. 

I do remember being presented with a kindergarten diploma by  venerable Monsignor Mooney, a big goblet of beer in his left hand. He had a long and saintly career; he had refused to become bishop  just before Cardinal Hayes was appointed because he loved to be close to his children--there were over three thousand of them in Sacred Heart School when I attended. When he died he was clothed in the robes of bishop, an honor he had refused in life. After kindergarten I started in at St. Paul's School--the Paulist Fathers--and was promptly relegated to the dumb row. This didn't go well with Mr. and Mrs. Koch so out of St. Paul's young Joseph was yanked and returned to Sacred Heart. Seven and a half years later in true Horatio Alger fashion, he was graduated with a medal for general excellence. Now he is a not so excellent private. For the intermediate stages read the next thrilling installment.

2/19/43

Registration at Jamaica High, February 1927. We had moved out to Jamaica in October 1926, but I continued  commuting to New York to Sacred Heart. When I went up to Jamaica to register, the place was in turmoil. The school had just opened, and they were overwhelmed by all whose who wanted to begin at a brand new school. Mr. Grant, administrative assistant, was handling the registration. His system was simple. As soon as he appeared in a corridor, he was surrounded by clamoring would-be Jamaicaites. He'd say, "wait here one minute "and then duck away for alcoholic fortification in his office. As the day progressed, the clamoring crowds grew larger and Mr. Grant  weaved more and more as he ducked away.  It was sure fun. 

I didn't get registered, but I did explore the school thoroughly from the boiler room and swimming pool in the basement to the music room in the tower. The next day young Joseph was accompanied by his mother. My mother claims she's still exhausted from climbing all those steps in her efforts to get me into Jamaica High School. Despite this he was denied registration because he supposedly was in the Richmond HIll High School area. I can still picture my mother walking into the principal's office  to assert that the Koches were taxpayers in Jamaica. Our first tax will wasn't due until March, but Mr.  Vosburgh didn't know that and so he filled out a form approving me for registration.

At the registrant office I was handed a blurred mimeographed slip of paper and two blank program cards.  I stared in amazement at the mimeograph slip. At first I thought it was a Greek motto, but that seemed unreasonable so I decided it was some kind of code to be deciphered as part of an intelligence test. After five minutes of puzzlement someone told me  to copy it on to the program cards.  It wan't until I actually attended the classes that I learned w hat the symbols were.  I remember some of them, E1A16-105, HE1B21 gym. The reason for the battle to get registered was that the authorities thought they could limit the attendance to the school's capacity, 3,200. The firs term th e registration was 4,000. When a quit two years later, it was over 6,000.  At Jamiaca I pursued the commercial course for two, years. Each term I was suspended because I was late three times during the first month. In those days we certainly had awful bus service.

2/25/43

At Jamaica High School, I was officially registered for the commercial course--a young businessman in the making. I was horribly shy in school--sitting in classes with girls made me embarrassed all the time. During my first term, I managed to fail Oral English.  We had English 4 periods  a week and a different teacher for Oral English.  I could never get up sufficient nerve to speak before the class.  I managed to pass my other subjects, but on the whole, I can't say I enjoyed my two years at Jamaica.  It was entirely too big for a school.  I never became real friendly with any of the pupils, and I never became sure of myself.  Where we lived, I was slightly older than the rest of the crowd--they were all about my brother Francis's age.  You know Mary at 14 what a difference two years  makes.  I was what you might call a good student  for I did pass all my subjects each term, which was rather exceptional for Jamaica. My greatest handicap besides my shyness was that I had no one to turn to   for advice on my school work. For instance, I should never have taken a commercial course.  I know I was totally disappointed that I wasn't allowed to take Greek in my sophomore year because I was a commercial student.

Richard Koch, Auto Mechanic

Richard is too modest to describe how he ran a gas station; I will try to explain.  My source is a very entertaining interview Richard gave in 1985, when he was working for American Cities Business Journals. Only Richard can tell us if he embellished his saga for the interviewer. He taught auto mechanics as well as running the gas station.

"For starters, he grew up in New York and graduated from Siena College with a degree in economics.  The Vietnam War was in progress, and he expected to be drafted.  While waiting for the word to come, Koch, age 21, got his driver's license, bought his first car and headed out to see the country.  One of the stops was Nevada, MO, where he dropped off a traveling companion who was going to volunteer his services at the mental hospital.  "I stayed a while there," he remembers, "then went to Padre Island and worked a week there."

He took a volunteer job in Amarillo, Texas [I think he worked in a prison], then headed back to New York.  About this time he was involved in an automobile accident.  "My car was totaled in Kansas City, he says at first.  "No, let's see, I guess it was totaled when I got back to New York."  He ponders the matter a moment, puzzled.  "Wherever, the accident occurred when he was turning left into a 7-11."  The insurance company gave him $250.

"I took a bus back to Kansas City--never do that--" he advises, apparently having decided the wreck occurred in New York.  "Because I had a place to stay here with some people I had met."  He worked as a volunteer librarian at the Jackson County Jail, spending his lunch hours shooting baskets at the St. Vincent's Catholic Grade School located next door to the house where he was staying.

"As it turns out, they needed a coach," he says of the school.  "And I needed a job.  They didn't have much money, and I wasn't a certified teacher, so we cut a deal."  It was room and board and $50 a month.  A great deal.  Until, that is, the Catholic diocese decided to shut down the inner city school.  It was in the early 1970's, and the school had been experimenting with the open education concept.  He and two other teachers chose not to give into the Catholic leadership decision; they incorporated themselves and kept the all-black school open as "Operation Breakthrough."

The school survives today as one of the city's largest day care centers.  [Mom and Dad always contributed generously.]  Back then, it taught children through eighth grade.  Koch taught science.  "We were pretty noisy, but it was fun," he remembers.  "We did a lot of experiments."  (What happens when an egg is dropped from the third-story window?  It doesn't break--he can tell you why.)  He also coached boys' basketball, girls' volleyball and softball, and a track team--"that was my favorite"--on which he had a "no cut" policy.

He also ran a service station, as part of the school's agreement with the government, which helped finance Operation Breakthrough.  "I couldn't  even figure where to put the gas," he says. Along in here somewhere, Koch met his wife--also a New Yorker--who is a nurse.  They were married in 1972. [This is wrong; they were married in 1971.] He decided he was going to need some money.  He started law school at the University of Missouri-Kansas City, while still teaching.

"In the last year of law school, I had three kids and we were broke," he says.  "We were really desperate."  He got a job teaching at DeLaSalle, a school for children who had been kicked out of other schools.  His teaching assignment: auto mechanics.

Auto mechanics?  "The reason I got the job was I was a state of Missouri vehicle inspector." he says.

Another story.  While managing the service station, Koch had subcontracted out the mechanics business.  One of the mechanics couldn't read, but wanted to be a vehicle inspector.  Koch volunteered to be his reader when he went for the exam.  As it turned out, the examiners wouldn't let Koch be a reader, but encouraged him  to watch the pre-exam film and take the test himself.  He passed; the mechanic failed.  And the experience helped Koch land a job teaching auto mechanics.

"I asked the first kid that came in what he wanted to learn," he says.

He said, "transmissions."

"I said, 'manual transmissions,' that's kind of tough.'"

He said, "Oh, I know how to fix manual transmissions, I want to learn automatic.'"

I made him my assistant instructor.  The relationship worked well.  "He thought I knew everything because I could read and he couldn't."

Our Patriarch--James A. Nolan

                                                         
December 31, 1999

Dear Family,

The least known, most overlooked Nolan is our patriarch,  James A.  He was

born James A., Jr. on December 31, 1886, and left us on January 23, 1939,  a

few weeks after his 52nd birthday. Today is the 113th anniversary of his

birth.

Most of us, his children, still speak of  him as  "Daddy" . The youngest of

us would say, "Daddy we hardly knew ya."

Mother often spoke of the significance of December 31st in the life of our

family.  There would be an open house at 105-11 220th Street to celebrate

Daddy's birthday.  Neighbors, clients and fellow parishoners from SS. Joachim

&  Anne would  stream through the house.  My sister Marie recalls that it was

some time before she came to realize that not everyone was celebrating her

father's birthday on the evening of December 31st.

I must confess I have no direct memories of all of that.  My memories of

December 31st focus on an annual trek I made with Mother  to SS. Joachim &

Anne Church for a New Year's Eve service.  Father Herchenroder or Father

Witterholt would read the names of all of those who had died during the year

so that we might pray for them.  Marie and I attended a similar service on

All Souls Day this year.  Our pastor,  Father Lou, read the names of  family

members lost during the year, including my brother, Frank.  When we lighted

candles and recited appropriate prayers, those New Year's Eve services so

long ago in the old white wooden church in Queens VIllage  seemed near at

hand.

Toward midnight on New Year's Eve, we would join Mother and Sophye on the

sidewalk in front ot the house, banging pots and pans, and tooting horns.  On

December 31, 1956,  Marie  and I were newlyweds, living in the small two room

apartment Mother had originally set up for Bob and Shirley.  We have a

memorable picture of us with Mother & Sophye, together with my brother-in-law

Jim McNichol and his fiance, Joan Heaney,  banging the pots and tooting the

horns to welcome the New Year,  1957.  And of course, no New Years's

celebration was complete without herring on crackers,  with maybe a bit of

horseradish.  We should not forget that my Grandma King's maiden name was

Gleitz.

Though my father had eight children, he lived to attend few of their

graduations and none of their weddings,  He never knew  the joy of sharing in

the lives of the ninety + grandchildren and great-grandchildren  who are his

progeny.  Before his own early death he had experienced the loss of his first

wife, Elizabeth; his daughter, Veronica; his brothers Frank and Warren; his

sister, Mary;  his mother and father, James  A. and Mary; and Mother's

parents, Johanna and Francis King.  He also suffered through many bouts of

poor health.

Despite these  many adversities,  my father had a successful career in the

law,  and was a strong and loving presence in the lives of his wife and

children, as well as in his large extended family.

This has been a difficult year  for us.  We still feel keenly the loss of my

dear brother, Frank who, though he was twelve years older than my father,

seemed, by current standards, a relatively young man, full of life.  We were

shocked by the terrible illness which afflicted Stephen Koch.

But there were joyful moments as well,  the weddings of Frank's and Kenneth's

sons, and Bob's grandson, and the births of new great-grandchildren, Maggie

and Timothy.  And we are relieved to know that Stephen has come a long way

back in his recovery.

So, as we await with hope the arrival of the 21st century, let us briefly

look back 113 years to the 19th century, and say to our Father:  Happy

Birthday, Daddy;  Happy Birthday, Grandpa;  Happy Birthday, Great-Grandpa.

You did good!

Happy New Year to all!

Love,

Warren & Marie

Memories of 105-11 220th Street

This was originally posted to the Nolan email list in 2006.

Mary Jo Graves 
I think I could recreate the first floor of 105-11 220th Street, but obviously the one dotters' memories would be far more accurate. Several times in my mom's last years we drove her by the old house. I am sorry we didn't think to take pictures. What do my cousins remember?

Kathye Torrisi 
I remember the front porch and them the living room with the stairs to your
left as you came in. We used to perform there when Uncle Jim would encourage us to sing and dance. There was always turkey soup in the kitchen when we came early on Thanksgiving. I also remember that little area off the dining room that had a bed and I think a curtain instead of a door.

Mary Jo Graves 
I remember exactly the same things.  I think I slept in the little bed off the dining room when I came to visit.  I vividly remember listening to the chime of the grandfather clock on the mantel in the living room. In my house, we have a piano against the stairs which looks remarkably like Grandma's piano.  At one point, I think Grandma had a bathroom installed off the kitchen.  As the family got bigger, we ate in the back porch. I remember the wicker furniture on the front porch; I think Aunt Joan inherited it and might have used it at Whitney Lake.

Richard Koch 
There was a back porch which I remember well thanks to Uncle Jim. It was there when I was a young teenager he told me I was old enough to smoke. I thought that was cool. He then proceeded to light up a large cigar which after several puffs filling my lungs with the smoke I became quite sick for what seemed like forever. I will say I was never even tempted to smoke again. I also remember the kitchen which had a door to the back porch was at the back of the house on the left with the sink located under a window on the outside wall. I also recall a bathroom upstairs that had a window as I spent a signifiicant amount of time  in it as I had to clean it up after my smoke with the window open on a cool Thankgiving day.

Mary Jo Graves: 
I remember the huge tub with feet in the upstairs bathroom.  I vaguely remember locking myself in by accident as a young child. I remember being afraid of the attic crawl space in the bedroom opposite the bathroom. On the same side of the corridor as the bathroom was the entrance to the living room/kitchen apartment where newly married one-dotters took turns using until they could afford their own house. I only recall one other big bedroom at the end of the hallway.
I am curious if the younger cousins remember the house at all.

Liz Nolan 
I certainly do. Other than the memories that have been mentioned (cigars (not that I smoked) and dinners on the back porch)...I remember watching  my Dad and Uncles change the storm windows. I also remember eating my first soft boiled egg one summer morning on the back porch. Was there a trellis with roses or is that my other Grandmother's house?!?

What do you remember?

All I Learned About Peter Blackstone From His Baby Book

Peter was born August 6, 1952 at 3:28 am at Mary Immaculate Hospital in Jamaica, NY. His parents were Mary V. Koch and Joseph J. Koch. He was baptized at St. Martha's Church in Uniondale. His godmother was Shirley Nolan; his godfather was Pat Dassau. His first visitors were the family. Prophetically, the book never gives Koch as his last name.

Unlike Stephen, he had gifts from everyone.  "Many new things for son #3. Shirley gave a baby shower for the new arrival. So far, all handwriting is mom's.

After lots of blank pages, we learn that Peter got  his first tooth at five months, and his first outing was home from the hospital. He apparently did not celebrate his first Christmas, but had a family party for his first birthday. He walked July 17, 1953, presumably stealing the spotlight from his big sister on her birthday. His second birthday was a quiet family celebration with Barbara and Richard Walley also attending. His present was a bicycle. His first words are not mentioned.

The family tree is filled out by his sister. His first playmates were Barbara Walley and Carl Schuler. He celebrated all birthdays with a birthday party, no other details noted.

He went to kindergarten at Walnut Street, September 1957. "Peter was enthusiastic and walked with Carl to Walnut Street School." He started St. Martha's in September 1958, taking the school bus. Only two teachers are listed.
Kindergarten, Mrs. McKeener and Miss Swiller (?) His first grade teacher was Sister Mary Amanda.

The same pussy cats are noted: Frisky I, Frisky II, Starkey, Bagheera, and Trigger. No "cat" though.

The important events in his life were the measles in June 1954, and polio shots in August 1956. The last page lists some heights and weights and the stand innoculations.

Grandmas, Kin-Keeping, and the Birthday Book

One of my most cherished possessions is my Grandma Nolan's  small 1980 datebook. It lists the birthdays of all her children, their spouses, her grandchildren, their spouses, and her great-grandchildren. All of us could absolutely count on a card from Grandma on our birthdays, anniversaries, and graduations. She always enclosed a dollar for her grandchildren;  she was on a strict budget and we cherished her generosity. If you hadn't received a card from Grandma Nolan, you must have gotten confused about your birthday She had 31 grandchildren and 23 great-grandchilden when she died at age 86 in 1985.

Mary Catherine  King was born in 1898 and left school after eighth grade. One of her first jobs was to mount women's combs on cards. She married my grandfather, James Nolan, a widowed lawyer with a toddler son, at age 22. She had seven children, four sons and three daughters; she raised her stepson as her own. Tragically one daughter died before she was two. Her husband died when she was 40; her children ranged from 17 to 2. He had been sick for 7 years; his chronic illness made it impossible for him to secure life insurance. After his death, she discovered his filing cabinet was full of unpaid bills from poor clients. Grandma had lost her parents the year before. Abruptly, they were very poor She collected rent from three small apartments in Brooklyn, but the apartments were the source of endless headaches. She worked in a laundromat. The older children helped support the family. My mom had to attend secretarial school rather than college.

Grandma was a very loving, giving, ingenious, frugal single mother. All her children turned out well--two lawyers, two teachers, a nurse, a social worker, a computer programmer. She was unavailingly there to help out when babies were born, when someone was sick, when someone was in crisis. A very religious woman, she was empowered by her deep faith. A lifelong Democrat, she voted in the first election open to women. She was always fascinated by world affairs and extremely knowledgeable about them. I could talk to her about anything.

In Becoming Grandmothers, Sheila Kitzinger describes the grandmother's role as the "kin-keeper." I have been understudying that role since my family lived with my grandma during the first two years of my life. I am the oldest girl cousin on both sides of the family.Grandmothers do emotional work. They sustain and nourish the family's kinship, keeping everyone connected with one another. This is a greater challenge now when families are far-flung and both parents are working grueling schedules. There is very little time left over for extended families.

I take absolutely seriously my commitment to follow my grandmother and mother, two strong, loving, generous matriarchs. Grandma knows the family's addresses, phone numbers, birthdays, Facebook accounts, Twitter logins.. Grandma informs the family if anyone is sick or in trouble, is engaged, lost a job, is pregnant. In the event of a family death, she alwasys knows the funerael arrangements. Grandma opens her house for family parties and reunions, no matter the state of her housekeeping or budget. Grandma can always identify the people in those old pictures and knows where the family skeletons are buried.

I have 5 brothers, 5 sister-in-laws, 11 nieces and nephews,7 of whom are married. I have 6 grandnieces and 4 grandnephews. Every year I revise the extended family directory, prying the information out of everyone. We established a family google group,  sharing news and pictures, so we all know what is happening in our lives, even if we don't see each other often enough. I do more of the communicating than anyone else, but I consider that my responsibility.  I just started secret family Facebook groups. Only family members can see who is in the group, post, and read posts.

I have seen both my mother's and father's formerly close knit family disperse once the family matriarch dies. My extended family is scattered all over the East Coast, from Maine to North Carolina, so it is a challenge to keep us close. Fortunately, we have had six family weddings since my mom's death 4 years ago, so they have been family reunions as well. In 4 years, my parents have had 12 great grandchildren.

When I was taking care of mother 24/7 during the last three years of her life, I scanned thousands of old family photos and slides. My husband, a computer programmer, wrote software for many family picture sites. His software enabled me to caption the photos and arrange them in chronological order. Pictures that family members had never seen were freed from boxes and closets and available to everyone anytime.capacity. At my mother's wake, we were able to show a slideshow of her life, with pictures from 1921 to 2004. 

As I learned to grandmother, my Grandma Nolan is my inspiration and role model. Looking through her date book always brings back new memories of love, humor, kindness, and understanding.

July 7, 1943, Dear Mom and Pop, Love Joe

I found this letter from my dad to Grandma Koch particularly interesting because he explains what he is actually doing at Lordsburg.

Wednesday, July 7, 1943

Dear Mom and Pop,

All my letters from New York have been complaining about your recent heat spell. Strangely enough, all last week was rather cool out here, because it was cloudy. We've been having some rain, but it didn't make it any cooler, This afternoon in our office, it must have been at least 110 degrees. Right now, the sun in shining brightly, it's raining with thunder and lightning, and we are having a dust storm--all at once.

As I tell Mary, I find it hard to imagine rationing. We get meat three times a day; the sugar bowl on our table is always filled, and we usually have butter. If the meat situation is as tough as you say it is, perhaps one of the girls might copy what the wife of one of our New York boys did. She was a dancer in a USO show, "Hit the Deck," which closed because all the male actors were drafted. When she got back to Jackson Heights, she abandoned show business and got a job as a bookkeeper for a wholesale butcher.

It's a wonder you didn't have to call in the FBI to locate your missing ration book.  You don't have to worry about all the points I'll eat up if and when I get my furlough. All I will have to do is present my furlough  papers to the ration board, and they will give me coupons for 1 lb. sugar, l lb. coffee, some meat points. and some other food points.

Well there have certainly been some changes since I wrote a long letter home. The censor's office was closed down, and I was assigned as a company clerk for 250 Italians. Each group of that many prisoners of war was to have a lieutenant, a 1st sgt., a  supply sgt., a mess sgt.;, a cook, an orderly, and a company clerk-that's me. For the week before the Italians actually arrived, everyone had to pitch in to clean up their barracks, set up cots, fill mattresses with straw, and quite a number of similar jobs.

In the meantime, however, just as I got up to the mattress filling, a sgt. in the Finance office of the camp was transferred, so I wandered in to see if I could get the job. From that first day, when I still had straw in my hair and ears and eyes, I've been working in the Finaace Office.  There is only two of us who do all the finance work for the camp. Our boss if Capt. Balch, a Frenchman from Louisiana, but all he does as far as we are concerned is to sign papers.

We have to figure out the payrolls for all the enlisted men and officers of the post and also for the civilian employees. In addition, we have a pay out furlough money, travel pay, etc., and fill out a thousand and one forms. The work is slightly difficult because of the red tape in the form of books and books filled with Army regulations.

On the day before payday, Frank Reichart, the chief clerk of the FO and myself, armed with revolvers--great big Wild West six shooters-go down to the First National Bank of Lordsburg to count the payroll and bring it beach to camp. We take with us three guards armed with submachine guns. Last month we had to count about thirty five thousand dollars. That's just the pay of the soldiers and civilians; the officers are paid by check.

A week ago Monday, the Italian PWs arrived, over 1500 of them. Most of them had been captured on Cape Bon in Tunisia, and only one or two could speak English. You can imagine the confusion that resigned for the first few days. Just now they are getting around to fingerprinting them. They were captured during the first week in May and have been traveling since. Just three hours after they landed in Boston, they were on the way to Lordsburg. The three hours were used to delouse them.

We got no officers, just enlisted men, and most of them seem to be glad that the war is over for them. Their first question after eating was would they get three meals a day like this one. They really cleaned their plates--the only things thrown in the garbage pail were prune pits. Most of them are in fine physical condition and appear to be excellent soldiers. At least as far as marching is concerned, for they march much better than the half-baked soldiers we have at this camp. Of course they should; they've spent years marching back and forth across Libya. They were impressed by the American planes and the British Eighth Army, but claim the only reason they lost was lack of equipment.

Here at camp, they are all anxious to work. In a way it's too bad that I didn't stay in the compound as company clerk; I might have learned Italian.

I finally got around to taking pictures with my camera, but as you might expect, most of them are scenery. I sent one set to Mary to start an album with as I figured she's already done so ,while the Koch's Mary or Agnes will be still thinking of it next Christmas.  Since I've appointed Mary as my picture editor--if you want to see them, you'll have to invite her over to dinner some night--tell  her to bring the album.  (Aside to Agnes, we still write to each other every day, and our letters seem to be getting longer too. ) Mary's brother Jim got a lucky break. After finishing at Notre Dame, he received his commission as an ensign, got a two week leave, and then was sent back to Ohio State to take some more courses in preparation for becoming a teacher…..

I'm glad to hear that everything is going along well at home including Pop's victory garden. The garden which the Japs left is still producing. I never had so many radishes in my life. How are you getting by now that income tax is taking a big chunk out of defense salaries? Did you renew the lease?

I have to say goodbye now as we're required to listen to a reading of the articles of war.

Love to all,
Joe

144-58 87th Road, Jamaica, NY

The Koches lived here in the early days of the war.


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Uncle Bob to Marie and Joe, July 22, 1945

1945, Sunday 22 July

Dear Marie and Joe,

I feel that I should make this letter something of a literary masterpiece because it's the first one I write to you, in your new role of a mother.  My writing is poor and my grammar worse so I'll have to be content with my usual awkward attempt to congratulate you and your husband.

Ever since you met Joe, I knew that each of you had a lucky catch and your child will forever be proud of its parents.  I'd never tell you ,I  guess, but I've always thought you tops in sisters, and I've seen the kind of wife you've made.  As a woman you have wonderfully fulfilled these capacities , and everyone has long realized that you'll make the best best type of mother.

Of course I get a great kick out of talking of my niece.  One can imagine the excitement among Kenneth and Frank.  There isn't a soul in Queens Village who doesn't know that there is  an addition to the Nolan household.  I guess there wasn't enough life in our house before.  This will certainly liven things up.

 Joe must be cheering so loud that it can be heard in the hospital.  He's a good guy Marie (need I tell you), and you both deserve the best.

love
Rob

Growing Up in the 1950s and 1960s

When I compare my life with that of my parents, they were far more rooted in the community and virtually immune to the seductions of consumerism. Raising six kids and sending them to Catholic schools on one middle-class income, they had to make their own entertainment.We didn't get a TV until I was 14; we got a mediocre audio system at about the same time. The radio was our main entertainment source. I recall the thrill of my own radio as a birthday present when I was 10; I could listen to Dodger games whenever I wanted. Movies were a luxury; we ate out about twice a year, usually when someone graduated.

We entertained ourselves by visiting family and friends. On Sundays we often visited my nearby aunt and uncle and watched Disneyland. All of my 45 first cousins were an easy drive away. There were countless Christening, First Communion, Confirmation, Graduation parties. We had family picnics with terrific softball games for all ages. There were gangs of kids in the neighborhood to play baseball, shoot baskets, play badminton, volleyball. Someone's basement had ping pong or a pool table. There was no extra money for music or dance lessons or gymnastic lessons. Riding bikes was the way we got around. Summers we hung out at the high school swimming pool or went to Jones Beach by bus.

We learned how to take the bus by the time we were 8. We used our bicycles for transportation. My parents only had one car. My mom used to drop off and pick up my father at the railroad station, so she could have the car. My parents were too busy to play chauffeur. Because there was no neighborhood Catholic school when the first three of us were young, we took the bus. In high school I took two buses to get there, taking an hour for a 15-minute drive.

Card playing was the way adults socialized. Almost every adult was competent at cards, and many were excellent bridge players. My parents played bridge with friends once a week. We used to creep down the stairs to hear the kibbutzing. Every home had a card table. People almost always had a deck in their bag or their pocket if you had to wile away time. Periodically my family discovers there is no cheaper or more varied form of free entertainment than card playing.

My parents were devout Catholics, genuine good people with a stalwart faith. When they moved to Long Island after my dad came home from the war, our home town was just potato fields. Schools, churches, community organizations had to be build. St. Martha's, the local Catholic parish, met in a nineteenth century building that became the volunteer library after the church was built. My parents and their friends worked tireless to raise money for a church, a school for 800 kids, a convent for the nuns, and a rectory for the priests.

My mom and dad were tremendously involved in social action outreach with the local Catholic Church. My dad was head of the St. Vincent de Paul Society, which ministers to poor struggling families in the parish. He visited the local nursing home every Sunday without fail. They visited parish families in need once a week. Some evenings he was called out to visit a family experiencing a sudden emergency. When they moved to Long Island in 1947, our town lacked a church. They and their friends raised the money to build a church, a convent for the nuns, a rectory for the priest, a grade school for 800 kids. That represented tremendous dedication to fundraising for a working class community.

The local library was run by volunteers for the first ten years. I had been infected by my parents' community spirit. When the library was vandalized when I was 9, my best friend and I volunteered two times a week to sort it out. I remember the chief volunteer struggling to explain to us the difference between fiction and nonfiction. My best friend and I also established the first library in our grade school. I spent four summer working as the children's librarian in high school. There were not yet professional librarians, so I had a free rein to run the summer programs anyway I liked.