Mom's "Red Noodles" and Other Nonsense

Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Mom's "Red Noodles" and Other Nonsense
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard
This post was updated December 31, 2022

My mother hated to cook, and she didn't keep it a secret from anyone, either. For evening dinner, we had a seemingly rotating schedule of Kentucky Fried Chicken, Banquet Entrees, meatloaf, vegetable soup, ham and beans, and pot roast. They were always delicious, even if she did hate making them. Mom also hated Sundays. Everything about Sundays. Is it because she was married to a pastor? I'm not sure what it was about Sunday that she couldn't stand, but, after she started to work at the Monticello Day Care Center, she decided she was never again going to cook a Sunday evening meal. One Sunday evening, however, Mom cooked up a mess of macaroni, to which she added salt, butter and tomato sauce. It was delicious.

I quickly learned how to do this on my own, and I believe that was the final death knell for Sunday evening dinner. I'm not sure when I began doing a lot of my own cooking, but I was 11 years old when I started counting calories. I was an overweight child. My mom made fun of me for it yet continued to buy sugary sweets. We never suffered from not having a doughnut in the house. I started counting calories and working out in 6th grade, and it worked. I lost the weight. But eating right? No, not until much later in life. Mom didn't keep vegetables in the house aside from canned corn, green beans, peas, and carrots.

Funny how things are handed down from mother to daughter when you think about it, especially, I think, after your mom has passed. I made macaroni and tomato sauce for myself many times as a child and as an adult. And then, when my daughter was born, I started making them for her. In fact, it was she who coined the term "red noodles." Why we didn't call it "red macaroni," I don't know, except it doesn't roll off the tongue the way red noodles does. When my daughter was little, mom's red noodle recipe morphed into those little pasta wagon wheels or whatever pasta her granddaughter wanted that day.

Something else I learned, not from my mom but from the day care center cook, was "butter bread." This was two slices of white bread with margarine spread evenly from crust to crust on one of the slices. Then put on the other slice to make a sandwich and cut into quarters. My daughter called it "butter bread," another staple of my childhood and hers. Its okay, though. She has grown up to become a healthy veg-heavy private chef. The butter bread didn't do any lasting damage.

When I was growing up, we didn't have a microwave oven, as they hadn't been invented yet, but I loved TV dinners. The food was contained in an aluminum rectangle with dividers to keep everything separated, wrapped with foil on top. To heat the food, it had to be put into the oven. I eventually learned to make mashed potatoes for myself from a box and Banquet Foods came up with "boiling bags." Their Salisbury steak or turkey with dressing were packaged in plastic bags. The instructions were to drop the bag into boiling water for about 5 minutes. Couple that with boxed mashed potatoes and boom! Instant TV dinner! No vegetables needed! My pocket calorie counting book didn't come with nutrition info, by the way, just calorie information.

Something else I learned to do as a child, and I have no idea how, but perhaps from the Betty Crocker cookbook my mom had. I loved chipped corn beef on toast. And so I would make that for dinner sometimes - or lunch. Both my parents worked and I had to fend for myself quite a lot. After Food Network came onto the scene, I learned that what I was making was a roux. Fancy!

That's the thing about the Betty Crocker cookbook and the cooking shows on TV in the 1960s. They assumed you had already learned the basics of cooking from your mother. I hadn't. That I learned to make a roux as a child still boggles my mind to this day. I have also learned from that basic roux, I can make gravy and bechamel for mac-n-cheese! 

When I married my first husband, I decided I was going to cook every meal every day. As an example of my poor cooking, I would put pork chops covered in flour into cold oil. Then I would put a lid on the pan and slowly heat everything up until the "juices ran clear." The flour never stuck to the meat, and I am positive that they were awful. But my husband and I would eat everything I made.  Oh, he made fun of me mercilessly in front of his family, but he never complained at home. This was in the 1980s, and we still didn't have Food Network. I didn't realize that I just needed to learn some basics. Now I know how to properly dredge meat and that it needs to be put it into hot oil and no lid!!!

I didn't inherit my mother's gifts for art. She was very good with colors, I'm not. She was so talented in painting things; decorative art is what she called it. I can draw a stick figure pretty good. She knew exactly what items of clothing go together. I'm better at it now. I inherited very few of Mom's good qualities, but my daughter inherited them all. She can paint and draw and do all the things my Mom was talented with doing. She's fabulous with hair and make-up and clothes, just like my mom. She’s also great at sewing, again, just like Mom. But unlike Mom, my daughter loves to cook. She can make the most complicated dishes. She can Guy's Grocery Games anything that's in the kitchen. She can make pasta and biscuits and cornbread from scratch, from memory, and without measuring anything, and they are all to die for. She can get anyone to eat their vegetables.  And something else she's good at, too. She can make red noodles.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Things My Mom Lost

Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Things My Mom Lost
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

We all lose things. 

Yesterday at church, at the noon service for Maundy Thursday, I wanted to look nice. I put on my diamond earrings that my husband gave me, my circle heart necklace, and my wedding rings. My skin is so sensitive, I can only wear my wedding rings sparingly, unfortunately. Then, I saw Mom's tennis bracelet that I got from her after she died. I saw it, put it on, and went to church. Funny, too, I kept looking at it kept thinking how neat it was to be wearing a part of my mom at the service.

After church, I had a post-op appointment with the surgeon and then home. Once home, I went to the bathroom to get ready for bed, since I was done for the day, and I love my PJs! I took the necklace off, the rings, the earrings - ouchy wouchy - even really good earrings make my ears red after a little while. And then, the bracelet. But the bracelet wasn't there. I looked in the closet where I keep my jewelry. Not there. I went outside to look in my Jeep Compass. Not there. I called the church. Not there. I called the surgeon's office. Not there. The bracelet was gone; I had lost it. And then I thought, well... that figures.

Growing up, I was always losing things that belonged to Mom. In 7th grade, my mom finally let me get my ears pierced. After, I asked Mom if I could wear her beautiful earrings to school and, totally unlike her, she said yes. I promised her I would take good care of them, and that I wouldn't lose them. You guessed it. I lost them. In hindsight, I wish she would've said that I should just wear them to church and then take them off afterward. And that's what I should've done yesterday. But I forgot about the bracelet after our beautiful Maundy Thursday service was over.

When I was in 2nd grade at Woodlawn Elementary in Monticello, Indiana, I wore one of my mom's gorgeous scarves to school.  It was a particularly windy day, and Betty Maxwell and I were together on the playground, using our scarves as kites. The wind hit my mom's scarf just right, and it went soaring away. I mean, it flew away like it was fleeing the doomsday machine.

Mom lost her childhood home to the 1937 flood of the Ohio River in Scuffletown, Kentucky. Her Uncle John Pfingston was her rescuer that night. Thank God for Uncle John Pfingston. He saved everyone who lived in Scuffletown using his ferry.  After that, mom moved with her family just across the river to rural Newburgh, Indiana, close to Cypress Beach and Vanada Station. Click on photos to enlarge

Uncle John Pfingston's Ferry
Around 1937
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

She went to high school at Yankeetown, and then her school burned down, so she lost that, because they didn't rebuild. After the fire, they bussed the Yankeetown kids to Pioneer School in Boonville, Indiana. Mom never got over her school burning down. Even after dementia began to set in, she would often tell the story of her school burning down.

Mom's Senior Photo
1951, Boonville, IN
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

After Mom married Dad, she lost her name. She loved her name, Mary McLean. She hated being Mary Howard. Today women just hang onto their maiden name if they want. Not so in the 1950s, especially in the religious family she married into. Mom's brother had married Mary Lott, who became Mary McLean. Mom always resented this, feeling as if her sister-in-law had somehow stolen her name.

Mom (L) with her brothers and sister
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

In 1963, I moved with my family to Monticello, Indiana, where we would live until 1977. We built quite a life at Monticello. My mother was the director of the highly reputable Monticello Day Care Center. Fourteen years later, my father got this itch to move to Evansville. An opening came up at a church, and he jumped at the chance, moving us to Evansville. Mom lost everything. She lost her friends, her job, her high station in life, her big house. She lost it all. Once to Evansville, she pivoted and became a successful artist, but she never recovered from the move, often speaking of Monticello with tears in her eyes.

Mom in her art studio about 1995
Taken by Ruth Kretchmar (1927-2011)
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Once her granddaughter was born, my mom soon began to teach her to sew. Together, they sewed a beautiful blanket. My mother loved that blanket, so Stephanie gave it to her. When Mom started talking about wanting to die somewhere around 2002, it got her into trouble. She also couldn't stop talking about the miscarriage she had in or around 1958. She would literally weep over this baby. She also couldn't stop talking about a family member who had been Catholic, who had married into the McLean family, and the McLean family shunned her for her Catholicism - I believe it might have been her paternal grandmother. My mother ended up in a mental ward at a hospital, and my father let her take the blanket that she and Stephanie had made together. You know the rest of the story. She lost the blanket. She came out of the mental ward, after shock treatment, not talking about her miscarriage or her family member. She was so angry about the blanket. She demanded that Stephanie make her a new one. And I told her, "Mom, I don't think she can, because I don't think she knows how to by herself."

And lastly, in the nursing home, just a few years before she died, my dad became obsessed with Mom wearing her wedding rings. Mom had lost so much weight, her rings didn't fit anymore. So Dad hired a jeweler from Boonville to come into the nursing home and measure her finger. Then the jeweler took the rings and resized them and cleaned them. Dad was so happy that Mom was going to wear her rings again, even though I warned him time and again that this was not a good idea. Dad rarely listened to me. He was hell bent on her wearing her wedding rings. She didn't wear them for very long until they were gone. We don't know what happened to them, but I was very careful not to be accusatory. My father, not so much.

Mom at Newburgh Healthcare about 2020
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

I'm not big into jewelry and never have been. My skin didn't used to be so sensitive, so that's not it. I think it's because I lost those earrings way back in 7th grade. I have always been so afraid of losing jewelry. But, I am going to buy another tennis bracelet to honor the memory of my mother. It probably won't look like the one I lost yesterday, but it's going to have a good clasp so that I don't lose it. And I'm only going to wear it to church.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

My Parent's Lifelong Love of Megachurch Pastors

 Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

My Parent's Lifelong Love of Megachurch Pastors
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

Most people don't believe me when I tell them we had cable television growing up in Monticello, Indiana, in the 1960s and 70s. I'm not sure when it was installed, but we had a cable box outside right there by the mailbox. We got about 13 channels. Channel 3 was the Kaiser Broadcasting System out of Chicago. Channel 4 was out of Indianapolis, and I enjoyed watching Cowboy Bob everyday around noon. Channel 9 was also out of Chicago and, beginning at 6:00 pm, ran their Comedy Tonight, which featured  The Honeymooners, which I did not like, I Love Lucy, which I did not like, Green Acres, which I adored, and that timeless classic The Dick Van Dyke Show.

My parents didn't watch much TV at that time in their lives, so the TV was pretty much mine. There was a time, however, when my mother did have the TV on, and that was Sunday mornings while we got ready for church. Every Sunday morning, Rex Humbard preached to us from his megachurch in Akron, Ohio, arguably one of the first megas in the United States. I doubt that I paid much attention to it. I just knew it was on. It was just part of the normal. Click on photos to enlarge

Rex Humbard
Public Domain via Wikipedia

My dad, of course, was not at home while Rex Humbard was preaching to us from his Cathedral of Tomorrow. I don't know what time Dad walked over to the church for Sunday morning, but I'm sure it was very early. He was a pastor through-and-through and devoted most of his waking hours to the church.

My father was more in awe of Billy Graham and all those people he evangelized back in the day. My father thought evangelism was the best way to minister - that is, bringing people into the church by telling them about Christ. (My father's words.) And once a part of the church, Dad would put them to work as Sunday school teachers, scripture readers, prayer givers, cooks for potlucks, etc. Our church in Monticello was BUSY and a lot of people wanted to be a part of that success.

Dad held Billy Graham and his sidekick, George Beverly Shea, on very high pedestals. Mom and I watched Billy Graham's Crusades when I was growing up, and it was confusing. I didn't like all the chaos of those thousands of people going forward to pray at Billy Graham's alter. For a Baptist, public confession is an important part of the doctrine. That is probably why I've been baptized three times, to make sure the public confession did the trick given all the "backsliding" I've done throughout my life. Thankfully when I converted to Lutheranism, no re-baptism was required.

Vincent Norman Peale, although not a televangelist, was another man my dad held up on a pedestal. Peale's book, The Power of Positive Thinking, became my father's mantra. I strove to take that mantra myself, but failed. My outlook on life is great now, but as a child... well, let's just say my childhood was pretty rough.

The megachurch pastor who may have planted that early seed in my father's head that he should become a mega pastor might have been Robert Schuller in Los Angeles. Dad marveled on many occasions how Schuller started his Garden Grove Community Church using a drive-in movie theater. Dad was so in awe of this.

Robert Schuller
Creative Commons via Wikipedia

Garden Grove Community Church, 1961
Robert J. Boser, Creative Commons, via Wikipedia

Mom as well was in awe of Robert Schuller, sending him monetary gifts on a regular basis. As I grew to adulthood, she began to share with me how much Robert Schuller's teachings meant to her and how he helped her with her growing depression. As a gift, the Schuller organization once sent her a clock as a thank you for her donations. The clock became one of her prized possessions. Talking with my daughter, the story brought a glimmer to her eye. She remembered the bird clock well and agreed that it had been indeed a prized possession of her grandmother.

Mom's bird clock
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Dad always said that it was a roommate of his that planted the megachurch idea in his head. He had attended a conference, and this man loaned him a book on how to start a megachurch. This was when I was 16, and my father's tone noticeably changed. He kept telling me about a recurring dream he was having about a huge barn filled with an extraordinary amount of tools. He just kept telling this to me. He said the barn was a huge church and the tools inside were all the people who attended that church.

I look back now and realize that this was his way of pleading with me to be okay with moving to Evansville, Indiana, as a high-schooler. A high-schooler, by the way, who was getting ready to be the accompanist of the coveted singing group The Golden Throats, a goal I had been working for my whole life, really. My tenure would be the last two years of my high school career, and then I had planned to enroll at The University of Evansville as a piano performance major. Our move to Evansville in 1977 would crush all of that, nor would Dad get his megachurch.

We moved to Evansville, Indiana, when I was 17, and I was unable to pivot. Dad was intent on building his megachurch, no matter what, using the now defunct East Side Baptist Church as his foundation. Well, that idea didn't go over very well with his new parishioners. In the meantime, the parishioners we had left behind in Monticello were devastated. I think they're doing okay now, 45 years later, but they did lose their prestigious Day Care Center because of our move.

Dad also floundered after our move. His mega church was not to be, and he felt so defeated. With the permission of the American Baptist Convention, he decided to start a new church in Newburgh, Indiana. This church was successful, definitely no mega, but successful. Then, something weird happened. He turned 65 and retired. I don't believe this was his choice, though. I think my mom was behind this. I don't know what her motivation was, but she so needed to live up to the status quo. Dad lived to make Mom happy, so he retired. After that, I watched him sink into a terrible depression as he watched in dread as his Newburgh church also became defunct.

I was working at a Methodist Church myself at this time, and so I went to the pastor of that church and asked if there was anything he could do to help Dad get back into the ministry. This pastor went to the District Superintendent of our area, and an appointment was set up for my dad to meet with him. The Methodists gave Dad a teeny church outside of Mount Vernon, Indiana. It was located on a little country road in the middle of nowhere! But Dad was so happy to be back in the ministry.

He didn't turn this church into a mega, either, but he did save them from becoming defunct. He used everything he had learned in his ministry to save this church and to bring new people in. Black's Chapel, as they were then called, now have a very nice property on one of the main roads in Mt. Vernon, closer to town, and they are flourishing. A nice group of them came to Dad's funeral, gratefully, and they told me that yes, Dad saved their church. I worked there the last three years of my Dad's ministry in Mt. Vernon, and I can say that actually, they saved Dad.

Mt. Vernon Community Church (Black's Chapel)
Google Maps
Proper Attribution Given

In his final years, Dad was enveloped in regret and grief for leaving Monticello; a lot of it probably from his dementia. He also realized how much he interrupted the plans that I had for myself. I tried to let him off the hook, because I'm very happy and very successful. But it was not to be.

The most important thing to Dad, however, more than anything else, including his own family, was reaching people for Christ, as he would always say. He was victorious in that endeavor.

In loving memory of my parents, Rev. William "Lester" and Mary Howard.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Edythe Louise "Edie" Marquess Miller (1911-1988)

 Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Edythe Louise Marquess Miller (1911-1988)
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

Listen... I'll be honest. I didn't like Edie Miller. Maybe I should say I was jealous. I felt growing up that she and my father spent way too much time together. What were they talking about together at the church all the time? I don't know. In hindsight, I'm sorry I didn't like her. I realize now that she was a fine, fine person. Still, my dad rarely was at home, and I hold that in my heart still to this day. Click on photos to enlarge

Edie Miller's college yearbook photo
Courtesy Ancestry
Fair Use

Dad tried to establish family night at one point, but I was a teenager by that time, and it was too late. I said no, and he threw his hands up immediately and said "okay." And then he tricked me by starting a youth group instead. Joke was on me.

Our first youth group in Monticello
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

When I was just 15 years old, for whatever reason, I decided to throw my parents a surprise 25th wedding anniversary party at the church. I recruited the church's secretary to help me plan the event. I did not, however, recruit Edie Miller. But there she was with her hands in the midst of it. In retrospect, she was the best person for the job!

My parents at their 25th party
Edie Miller in the background
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Edie Miller was born Edythe Louis Marquess in Crawfordsville, Indiana, to Frank Marquess and Florence Green. She attended Butler University in Indianapolis for at least a year. She married Myron Miller in 1937 in Indianapolis, and they later moved to Monticello, Indiana.

Myron was a pharmacist, and he is the one who filled the "diet pill" prescription my mother had become addicted to. My mother was an enigma. If Mr. Miller questioned the validity of whatever these amphetamines were, this prescription was for Mrs. Howard, the wife of Rev. Howard. That meant it was perfectly fine. After we moved to Evansville, the pharmacist here said "no" when she presented her prescription to him.

I can't gain access to the Monticello, Indiana, newspapers, which would be so helpful. Mr. Miller worked at one of the pharmacies in downtown Monticello. After school, my friends and I would sometimes stop into the soda fountain at the pharmacy for a Coca-Cola. I still remember the wood floors in those old buildings, and how they creaked when someone walked on them. Mr. Miller always was cordial, not overly friendly, but nice. I also remember my friend, Kathy Olson, telling me to try a cherry coke. I was not a fan.

The reason to honor this woman, however, was that she honored me as a teenager, and I'll forever be grateful to her for this. In 1974, Monticello endured an F4 tornado that, according to Wikipedia, "produced the longest damage path recorded during the 1974 Super Outbreak." The destruction of this tornado was great. The area in which we lived including the parsonage, the church, and Loucille Cole's home, were fairly undamaged in comparison. We lived in a sort of valley with the Tippecanoe River being just a block further downhill. A ridge rose on the opposite side of the river where a "National Homes" subdivision was located. It was destroyed, and its numerous belongings were blown down into our large yard.

After the tornado, my mother was inconsolable, begging Dad to move to Newburgh, Indiana, so she could be with her family. She was yelling at my father, through her tears, to move. This was a mistake, because only a few years later, we moved to Evansville, Indiana, close to Newburgh. My mother never got over the move from Monticello.

Back to the tornado and its aftermath... My father, Rev. Howard, decided that he needed to be there for his parishioners. That's fair. And we had lost power to the house, and I believe it got pretty cold outside afterward. I don't know where my mother went, but they shipped me off to someone who worked at the church's day care. I became very sick that evening, so I caused a lot of trouble to this person. Once to this person's home, I started throwing up at one end with diarrhea on the other. She had to clean up one mess of body fluids after another. And, to top it off, I wet the bed that night. This person threw me into her car the next morning and took me back to 407 Beach Drive and washed her hands of me. I never saw her or her family again after that.

Myron and Edie Miller
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

After that, I was shipped to.... Edie Miller. I don't think Mrs. Miller knew my feelings for her. Perhaps she felt like I was struggling after seeing my hometown destroyed. She would have been right. I was devastated after the tornado. We all were. She told me I was suffering from malnutrition, and she made me dry toast and poached eggs for dinner. I ate them. She really tried to take care of me that night. She brought out board games for us to play together. I don't think I was rude, and I hope I wasn't. But she is the one who saved me. I was healthy and well when I left her care.

It was two years later that I planned that surprise 25th wedding anniversary for my parents. Thankfully, Mrs. Miller stepped in to help. I could not have pulled it off without her.

Ruth Kretchmar, Sharon Tolley, Edie Miller
1976 surprise party for my parents
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Mary Ann Poore Dean (1902-1987)

 Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Mary Ann Poore Dean (1902-1987)
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

I'm not sure how my mother decided which myriad of older church members I was going to stay with on their date nights, but fortunately, Mary Dean was one of those church members. She lived very close to our house on Beach Drive on Pine Lane in Monticello, Indiana. Her house was newer than ours, ranch style. And I loved her bathroom! She had a shower in tub with glass shower doors that I thought were beautiful. This is probably why when I moved into my first home, I had my first husband install them. MISTAKE! Do not put glass shower doors on your tub! They are so difficult to clean. Also in her bathroom was a vanity chair. It was all so fancy.

I'm not sure how much I stayed with her, but I remember sitting on her living room floor, playing pick-up sticks with her or typing on her typewriter. I've always loved typing. We didn't watch TV. In hindsight, she may have sat at her kitchen table grading papers. I didn't realize she was a schoolteacher at the elementary school where I attended. She retired in 1968 after the death of her husband, Glen, who was also a schoolteacher. I was 7. Apparently, according to my childhood friend, Linda, Mary continued to substitute teach in the same school system.

She was always kind to me, and she was always gracious when I stayed with her. She had a guest bedroom that was reserved just for me. Outside of the bedroom window, I could see the Burger King lighted sign. I would watch out that window, waiting for the light to switch off. That's how I knew it was 10 pm, which meant it was time to go to sleep. I never had trouble sleeping at her house. I don't remember what it was like to wake up at her house, though. I can imagine that she welcomed the new day and me, perhaps having breakfast ready? I just can't remember.

Once when we were together on a Friday night, we went to a restaurant that had all you can eat fried chicken. I ate all that I could eat and then some. She never shamed me for being too heavy or for eating too much. When we got into her car, I told her I could go back in now and eat some more. She told me that she could, too! I also remember eating with her at a nice restaurant with tables and tablecloths. It may have been Angler's Restaurant.

Mary Dean was born Mary Ann Poore in St. Louis, Missouri. Her parents were Frank and Anna Poore, and she was born in 1902! When I think of the people in my young life being born over 100 years ago is a bit lifechanging! Also thinking of all those wonderful people in my young life, I am finding a gratitude for those women that I've never felt before. When you're young, that's just your normal, right? How I wish I could go back and hug all those wonderful women! I will hug them for sure when we all get to heaven.

Reaching out on Facebook, hoping to find a few pictures since my father threw all my Monticello pictures away, in his dementia. God bless him. I didn't find any pictures, but I did find some comments. She apparently was a stern schoolteacher. She also - I had forgotten - had a birthmark that covered half of face. This was off-putting to some, unfortunately. How brave she must have been.

After remembering the birthmark, I wondered how much it affected her life. I did find at least one picture. Her senior picture. It is heartbreaking. The name of "Poore" at the bottom of her picture indicates her maiden name. Click on photos to enlarge

Mary Ann Dean nee Poore attended Ball State Teachers College and graduated from there with a master's degree in elementary education. Her husband, Glen, also graduated from there. I imagine this is where they met. They settled in Kokomo, Indiana, where they both taught public school. I don't know why they moved to Monticello, but I would think it was because they were offered good jobs there. They lived a modest life, to be sure, but it doesn't seem they wanted for anything. They attended church faithfully.

Death doesn't bother me. It never has. And I wonder if it's because I grew up with it. We had many funerals at the church growing up, and the bodies would be delivered sometimes the day before. And I was there with the bodies, and it was the normal. To that end, when Mrs. Dean's husband, Glen, died in 1968, his embalmed body was delivered to the church. The next day, at the funeral, the only thing I remember was watching Mrs. Dean walk up the church sidewalk to the doors. She was stoic. And it left me wandering, how was she feeling right then?

After Mr. Dean died, Mrs. Dean and my father put their heads together, brainstorming of what to do with the church building during the week. Dad didn't think the church building should ever be empty, except maybe at night - maybe. They settled on starting a day care center. Mrs. Dean volunteered her time every day, every week, and worked to build the day care center. The endeavor was successful, and the day care center served many children over the years. 

You know what makes me so angry at myself is not keeping in touch with these wonderful people. And I'm angry that I didn't rescue my pictures. I thought they were safe in my father's care. When I realized he had thrown the pictures of the day care center away, I became a little more intentional on getting whatever pictures he had left into my possession. I didn't want to upset him by taking what he perceived to be his things.

I did also find a small box of slides that I was able to make into jpegs. In this picture, Mary Dean may be the woman on the right, but I can't blow the photo up close enough to see if that's her birthmark or a blemish in the picture. Many of the slides were in such bad shape with many blemishes.

After the day care was up and running successfully by itself, Mrs. Dean retired and moved back to Kokomo. At the end, she was with her son, David, in Brazos County, Texas.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

The Joe Schnepp Family of Monticello, IN

 Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

The Joe Schnepp Family
__________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

I don't remember when the Joe and Jeanette Schnepp Family began attending First Baptist Church of Monticello, Indiana. It feels like they just were always there. Joe and Jeanette were at the church a lot, and I know my dad thought the world of them. I don't remember their roles exactly, but I see in Jeanette's obit, she sang in the choir. She and I shared the same birthday, and I think she may have sent me a card every year. I'm not sure, but when I saw on Ancestry that we shared a birthday, it felt she was proud of it or at least thought it was neat.

I learned early that the two boys they were rearing, Mike and John, were their nephews. I'll not repeat the story I was always told as to why, because I don't know if the reason is true or if I even am remembering it correctly. But Mike and John indeed lived with their Uncle Joe and Aunt Jeanette, and so, they attended my dad's church. I didn't know what to do with this. I couldn't figure out if they were my friends or were just being nice to me because they had to be.

I was as boy crazy as any other little girl, but mine was terribly unhealthy. I was so obsessed with David Cassidy, it was ridiculous. And so, I also wondered if either Mike or John could become my crushes. Mike did give me a ring once at church, and I was proud of it. But my dad saw it and told me I had to give it back. Instead of going to Mike and telling him "My dad says I have to give the ring back, I'm sorry," like a normal person, I yelled at him and threw the ring at him. So much for having crushes.

Mike and John's grandmother lived really close to our house, just off North Main Street. She ran a yard sale everyday and had a big sign that you could see from Main Street that said "RUMMAGE." I only remember being there one time, but I'm sure it was many more times than just once. But in this memory, she had an orange clear plastic piano for sale. It was small, and I liked anything that had to do with the piano. There was only one problem. This particular piece actually was a cigarette holder. So, because it was a cigarette holder, their grandmother wouldn't let me buy it. Such was the constant supervision I lived with growing up as Rev. Howard's daughter.

Once when at their grandmother's, John asked me if I wanted to know how to lose ten ugly pounds. Being chubby, I definitely wanted to know! The punch line was "Cut off your head." Little boys telling dad jokes. Click on photos to enlarge

L to R: Janet and Rose Geier, ?, Mike Schnepp, maybe Leo Price,
Greg Timm, Cindy VanMeter, me, ?, John Schnepp, Peggy Shine
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Something that I've never understood was how my parents were okay with me spending an afternoon with Joe's sister, Ethel. I was never allowed really to go much of anywhere, but yet, they let Ethel take me home to Idaville, Indiana one day. I think it might have been after church. The reason I question it, even today, is that she was estranged from her husband, and she was afraid of him. Or at least, she made me afraid of him. She was continually looking over her shoulder that day, on the lookout. I only remember two other things from that day. The first was that we stopped at a gas station so she could put gas in her car. At that point in history, there was such a thing called Ethyl gasoline. She told me at the station that I could always remember her name by thinking of Ethyl gasoline. The last thing I remember from that afternoon is that she taught me to play a card game called Crazy Eights. It may be this experience that gave me a love for card playing. A love I no longer have as an adult.

L to R front row: Debbie Sproles, John Schnepp
I unfortunately don't remember the other three
The teacher, though, (in blue) didn't like me
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Mike and John's uncle, Uncle Joe, drove a school bus for the Twin Lakes School Corporation. I walked to school at Woodlawn Elementary, because it was 5 minutes from my house. When I hit 6th grade, I, like most of the other 6th graders were shuffled off to Meadowlawn Elementary. It was a good system, for the 6th graders had their own wing in this school and were kept separate from the others.

Even though Meadowlawn was on the other side of town, I walked and/or biked to and from school whenever I could. Otherwise, I would ride the bus. I'd walk to Woodlawn to catch bus #6 driven by Uncle Joe Schnepp. He was a good bus driver, very kind to the students.

L to R: My dad, me, two visitors, and Mike Schnepp
I was mad at Dad, the reason for my face
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

I don't remember when, but I do remember that Joe and Jeanette built a new house in an area called Norway. We visited several times as they were building. I don't remember the floor plan, but I do remember having a church Halloween party there. Funny thing about my dad being reared Pilgrim Holiness. we always had Halloween parties growing up. I don't know what the Pilgrim Holiness beliefs are as to Halloween, but I wouldn't think they'd see it in a positive light. This particular party wasn't the church-wide Halloween party but was just for those in the youth group. I made one of the attendants upset. I identified her when I arrived by saying hi to her and calling her by name, thusly ruining the "guess who this is" game. She didn't talk to me for a while after that. We also dunked for apples, and I was terrible at this. I didn't like having my head under water, for one thing. Can you imagine a bunch of kids sticking their head in the same container of water, all of them with mouths open, spit coming out in droves. Post-pandemic I wonder if any of us got sick after such a spectacle? How did we survive?

The two trees in front of the church
I loved those trees and took this picture hoping
I'd never forget them

When we left Monticello in 1977, I clung onto everyone as hard as I could. To that end, I had all my friends at First Baptist Church sign my bible, much like you would have someone sign your yearbook. I was clinging to what I had, knowing I was going to be a terrible situation once to Evansville, I was hoping against all hope that I could take something from Monticello with me to Evansville that would get me through. But the old saying is true. You can't go home again. Once we turned our backs on Monticello, it was over.

Me in front of the moving van
I had by this time lost the weight
I look happy, but I wasn't

The bible that everyone signed has long been missing,  I still remember what John Schnepp wrote in it though.  In his usual humor, he wrote, "don't forget to breathe." Sage advice for any generation. On a brighter note, it did all work out, in the end.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Dad's Best Friend, Bill Kretchmar

Growing Up with a Preacher Man 

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Dad's Best Friend, Bill Kretchmar (1920-2006)

____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

As a child, I didn't understand the dynamic a lot of relationships, especially when it came to my dad. You see, Dad didn't have friends. He, as a pastor, felt he couldn't really have "friends" per se, because he was a pastor. Growing up with Dad, even as a child, I witnessed his mental health struggles. I always thought it would be good for Dad to have a best friend. He did have one, though; he just didn't label Bill as his best friend. Because he was a pastor, and he felt he couldn't have friends.

Bill, along with his wife and family, were hometown treasures of our little resort town of Monticello, Indiana. The Kretchmars owned "The Frosty Mug" drive-in where root beer flowed freely into frosty mugs, and it was good root beer, too. It's never really been my thing, but something was different about the root beer at The Frosty Mug!

Frosty Mug was started in 1954 by Bill Kretchmar and his father-in-law, Louis Barton. I don't know why the Bartons and the Kretchmars decided to move from Hammond, Indiana to Monticello around the time they started the restaurant. I never wondered about that. Ever. Until now. Isn't it funny the things we take for granted? Especially as children. But they did move to Monticello, and I'm ever so grateful to have known them.

Perhaps their move had something to do with the First Baptist Church of Monticello, which was started about the same time as the restaurant. Click on photos to enlarge

1963 letter from Bill to my dad
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

As I said in a previous blog post, it feels like I remember meeting Bill and Ruth when I was 2 years old. They were showing us the house we were going to move into on Beach Drive in Monticello. A more probable memory, however, is when we would visit Frosty Mug. I don't think we did it very often, because my father was a very proud man, and our food was always free. But, oh, those tenderloin sandwiches. So good. I was intrigued by the drive-in, and it was fun to eat in the car. Why? Because I was a child, I guess, and I was getting my very own tenderloin sandwich. Bill would serve us himself!

We were with the Kretchmars a lot. I remember that their house on the east side of Monticello, Indiana, had a laundry chute. That was so cool. I couldn't find this home's address using Ancestry, but I was pretty sure I could remember where it was. Sixty years ago, this house was spectacular.

Bill & Ruth's first Monticello home
Courtesy Google Maps
Proper attribution given

When Dad first came to Monticello to be the pastor of the First Baptist Church, they were meeting in a little storefront close to Bill & Ruth's home, on the east side of Monticello. Bill was the "moderator" in the church service, so he sat in the front of the church with Dad, facing the people. He led the congregational singing as well and sang special music quite a bit. More than once, he sang "His Eye Is on the Sparrow," moving my dad to tears every. single. time.

Front row: Dad, me, Mom,
maybe Wanda King, Mrs. Geier.
Loucille Cole is in this one as well.
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

The church soon moved to its brand-new home on Beach Drive and the Kretchmars moved to 5461 E. Fairbanks Court. Google Maps does not have street view for this home, but you can see it is on the banks of the Tippecanoe River. It is also very close to the Indiana Beach amusement park.

Bill & Ruth's dream home
Monticello, IN
Google Maps with proper attribution

I remember this home well. In this home, Ruth would make "purple cows" for us, which I believe I always declined. There was a Hammond organ, or something like a Hammond organ, and over it was a beautiful family picture of Bill and Ruth with their children and with Ruth's mother. The second story overlooked the Tippecanoe so beautifully. And that living area was all glassed in, so you could see for miles around.

We would visit every July 4th, and I would watch the fireworks on their upper deck. I watched them by myself, which, watching them by yourself as a child is pretty boring. My parents would be inside the home with the Kretchmars, talking about who knows what. Grown up stuff like the restaurant business or the church business.

Something else I remember is that Ruth was always dressed to the nines with perfect make-up and hair. By her vanity, affixed to the wall, was a print of a painting. It was one of those where you can see two different things. One view was a beautiful woman sitting at her vanity looking at herself in the mirror. The other view was that of a skeleton head, and the caption "All Is Vanity." It spoke volumes to me as a young girl growing up in a legalistic household. Cosmetics were bad. Looking nice was bad. That's unfortunately what I took away from the picture, thanks to my filters. I wonder, though, what the sketch meant for Ruth.

"All Is Vanity"
By Charles Allan Gilbert
Fair Use

L to R; Ruth Kretchmar, Sharon Tolley, Edie Miller
Howard Family Collection

When I was young, a singing group from Pomona, California, did a concert at our church. They were called The Overtones, and I was star struck. They were so good. And the after party? It was at Bill & Ruth's big house on the river. These are the things that were taken away from Mom and me when Dad moved us to Evansville. It was a huge deal to be on the "in" with people like Bill & Ruth Kretchmar. That party. It was amazing. And so much fun to party with all these cool cats!

The Overtones
Fair Use

Another fun memory that so many of us from Monticello have were the steamed cheeseburgers at The Frosty Mug. Once the day center was opened up at First Baptist, these steamed cheeseburgers were on their menu, as well! Someone even posted recently on Facebook the recipe.

After we moved to Evansville in 1977, Bill & Ruth came to see my parents. I know it was around Christmastime, because, as a musician, I used to play piano for a lot of Christmas parties. I was playing a party and then after that went to Mom and Dad's to see Bill and Ruth. This is crazy, because it was probably 11 p.m. Fast forward to present day, and I need to be home on the couch by 6:00.

They probably came many times to visit my parents, and I'm just smushing all their visits together into one. It's a five-hour drive from Evansville to Monticello, though, and it's not a fun drive, either.

Ruth Kretchmar, Me, Mom, Dad
at First American Baptist, Newburgh, IN
Howard Family Collection

Mom, Dad, Bill Kretchmar
at First American Baptist, Newburgh, IN
Howard Family Collection

Dad, Stephanie, Mom, Bill, and Me
at my parents table, 1997
Don't judge my hair lol
Howard Family Collection

The last memory to share is that of the monthly skating parties our church had. We rented a roller-skating rink in Logansport, Indiana every month on a Thursday. We would meet at the church and drive together in a caravan. I had a problem learning to skate, because I was afraid of falling. Poor Bill. He decided to teach me to skate, and it turned into a several month project. I knew he was tired of helping me, but he continued anyway, and I let him. I was afraid to let go of him. He would just kindly say "pretend you're like a sack of potatoes. Just a sack of potatoes." I'm sure he was relieved when I finally learned to roller skate on my own! Those were the days. We looked so forward to those skating parties, all of us, adults and children. We'd skate from about 7 p.m. to 10 p.m. And in the middle of the skate, we'd take a break to have devotions and prayer.

My dad was amazing in finding ways to share the gospel with the people he pastored, including the one who was secretly his best friend.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

Loucille Craig Cole, My Very First Best Friend

Growing Up with a Preacher Man

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

Loucille Craig Cole, My Very First Best Friend (1904-2000)
____________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

I don't know how old I was when I became aware of Loucille Cole, our nearest neighbor. She, of course, attended my dad's church, as she lived as close to it as we did. Click on photos to enlarge

Top Arrow: Loucille, Middle Arrow, Church
Bottom Arrow, Us
Courtesy of Google Maps
Proper attribution given

It may have been that my parents naturally chose her to be my sitter, whenever they wanted or needed to go out somewhere. Whatever the reason, I consider her to be my very first truly best friend.

An unexpected find from Dad's old slides!
Look at those cars in the parking lot
Loucille Cole
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Her house has since been torn down, but I remember it vividly. Below is a crude drawing of her floor plan, but you get the idea. She had 3 rooms in her home plus a very small bathroom. 

It was in the living room where we would watch TV together. She's the one who introduced me to The Doris Day Show and told me that "Que Sera, Sera" had been one of Day's biggest hits. We watched The Brady Bunch together. That's the only two shows I can remember watching with her.

I remember that she always made her bed. And I believe she had that metal dining table that so many households had in the 1960s. Her kitchen countertop against the wall, where you could look out the window, scrolled around at the front door, turning into three small shelves. I only remember two things on those shelves. One was a small, doll-sized bathtub that I had given her, which was full of rocks I thought were pretty. I had given them to her as a gift. The other was a pair of scissors. She always said, "Those were Joe's." Joe was her late husband.

Loucille is on the right
Carolyn Ann Howard Family Collection

Loucille Cole was born Loucille Craig 08 Mar 1904 in Quebec, Tennessee. That's more than I ever knew about her before. I don't know why she and Joe came to Monticello. Her husband was Joseph Lewis Cole, and he was born in 1882 in Tennessee. They were married in 1922. Joe was 40. Loucille was 18. As far as I know, they had no children. Joe was a laborer.

She would talk about Joe, not so much of him but of his things. Like the scissors were Joe's, or that she went to visit Joe's stone in Chalmers, Indiana. I was a child and that she was a widow had no bearing on anything I could relate with. She seemed happy; that's all that mattered.

She had four trees in her yard. She had a glorious weeping willow tree. And then she had three fruit trees: cherry, apple, and pear. She would let me pick as much fruit as I wanted, and I would take it home, and pretend to serve it in my pretend kitchen that was in my playroom in our walk-out basement. You would think that my favorite fruits are cherries, pears, and apples. Alas, they are not.

On one side of the parsonage where we lived, we had a gully where wild pokeweed grew. This might be one of the reasons I absolutely love pokeweed and upset my first husband when I planted some in our yard. I don't really know if this is Loucille's doing or not, but she would harvest our pokeweed and cook it up. This fascinated me as a child, but as an adult, I am not at all surprised that she would have been able to make a tasty treat from a so-called weed growing wild in our yard.

Pokeweed
Courtesy Pixabay

Loucille was patient, loving, kind, and compassionate, everything I Cor. 13 tells us to be. I don't remember her ever being upset with me, but she did lose patience with me once that I remember. Here's the story:

When I was in middle school - or Jr. High as it was called then in Monticello - we were required to take Physical Education (PE). I hated everything that had anything to do with PE. Firstly, we had to dress out in little blue one-piece outfits. I was overweight by this time, had a terrible opinion of myself and my body, and this little blue outfit did nothing to help my self-esteem. The worst part, though, was at the end. All of us girls had to strip down to nothing, parade in front of the PE teacher and her assistant to get to the shower, where we were all supposed to wash ourselves, parade back to the dressing area, still naked, wrapped in a towel, and get dressed in an area that felt no bigger than one square foot. It was ridiculous.

I asked about it once, because I felt it was wrong. I was told, to my consternation, that this was perfectly normal behavior between girls and women. Take that in for a second...

And so, I tried an experiment, and while Loucille was in the bathroom, I barged in. She very politely and kindly asked me to give her privacy. Such were the contradictions of my childhood. Needless to say, I haven't barged in on anyone else ever since.

Who doesn't love fried chicken? And Loucille made the best. I remember one time, sharing a meal with her in her kitchen - what a gift - I asked her if I could use my hands to eat. I'm not sure if it was chicken or if it were something else, but I remember her answer loudly and clearly, and still use the phrase to this day. She replied, "There's nobody here but us chickens." <3

Loucille didn't drive, but she worked at Bryan's Manufacturing, and some kind soul picked her up and brought her home every day after her shift. Bryan's Manufacturing was a big employer in Monticello, and I have no idea what was made there. She had retired by the time we left in 1977, but I'll never shake off the guilt of all those we left behind to search for that shiny star we thought we'd find in Evansville. Not that I didn't find shiny stars, because I did, but we left so abruptly. I don't even remember saying good-bye to her.

One last memory of Loucille is that when she came to see us, which was often, she would open our back screen door ever so slightly and say "Yoo-hoo!" We practically lived in our walk-out basement, and so she knew which door to open and say "Yoo-hoo!"

Loucille later moved to Logansport, I believe, to a niece's home. But I'm not sure. I'm just trying to remember what my parents told me years ago. Loucille died in 2000 at the age of 96.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC

My First Piano Teacher, Betty Jane McMillan Kovatch (1922-2008)

Growing Up with a Preacher Man 

Rev. William "Lester" Howard (1929-2021)
Mary Eulalie McLean Howard (1933-2021)

My First Piano Teacher, Betty Jane McMillan Kovatch (1922-2008)
___________________

by Carolyn Ann Howard

My piano teacher growing up was Betty Kovatch. This woman had a profound influence on me, and it wasn't always good. But... it wasn't always bad, either.

My mother enrolled me in piano lessons when I was 5 years old. I don't know why, and I don't know how I came to be taught by Betty Kovatch. My mother always felt that signing me up for lessons was one of her greatest accomplishments. For me, the lessons have been both a blessing and a curse. I have been a professional musician for most of my adult life. Sometimes I wish instead, though, that I had didn't know how to play the piano. I love telling stories, history, and writing more than anything. I have no regrets in the end.

I first met Betty Kovatch in or around 1966. She lived at 301 Bluff Street in my childhood hometown of Monticello, Indiana. I still remember what the entirety of her house looked like. A huge rectangular living room with the "idiot box," as she called it, in one corner and a spinet piano in the opposite corner. In a cabinet, she kept her John Thompson method books, and my mother bought from her "Teaching Little Fingers to Play." I remember coming home from that first lesson and asking what my assignment was. Well, there was no assignment, and I was so disappointed. Click on photos to enlarge

301 Bluff Street
Courtesy Google Maps
proper attribution given

Mrs. Kovatch, as I will refer to her in this story, was a chain smoker and had 2 Siamese cats who would hide whenever I was there, except for the one time I spent the night. She would smoke half a cigarette between lessons, always back in her kitchen. And sometimes she would bring back the most amazing looking coffee drinks with her to sip on while she taught. I was always so jealous that she had a drink, and I didn't.

A couch partitioned off the teaching area of her home, and students would walk in at their appointed time without knocking. I was always a little early - story of my life - and so I would wait on that same couch. Socially, I was awkward, and one time, I heard Mrs. Kovatch laughing with another student, and so I laughed as well, because I thought I was just being part of the group. Mrs. Kovatch didn't say anything to me at that time, but she called my mother later to tell her I had laughed at a student. I got into so much trouble and the next week, I was forced to apologize to Mrs. Kovatch. It was really hard for me to do that, and it was so embarrassing. No one told me what I had done wrong or even what I was apologizing for. Besides, shouldn't the apology have been given to the other girl I supposedly laughed at? I would have never done this to any of my piano students. It's hard enough being a child as it is.

 I owe the musician I am today to Dr. Douglas Reed, who was my organ professor while studying at the University of Evansville. When I first reached Ball State University in 1979 - with a full scholarship - I didn't even know what a chord was. I didn't even know fully what staccato meant! My students learn about intervals in their very first book; indeed, it is how I teach children to read music. Staccato/legato is one of the first technics they learn, and granted, I might not tell them that staccato means half the value of the note, I will certainly let them know later when they become more advanced. And the same with chords. And it's not because I'm a great teacher - which I would like to think that after over 40 years, I am pretty good at teaching - it's the method books that I use. It's in the method books where all these things are introduced. The method books guide the teacher to teach correctly and in order. The John Thompson series of method books, unfortunately, were not great. They did not guide the student or the teacher through anything. It was merely one song after the other and hopefully you were able to play it by the next lesson. More often than not, I couldn't, and it was, Mrs. Kovatch said, because I didn't practice enough. She was correct.

When I finally reached the University of Evansville, I remember vividly my first lesson with Dr. Douglas Reed.  In that first lesson, I badly bungled a run. And I thought, "Oh no, here we go. He's going to accuse me of not practicing when really I had practiced quite a bit to prepare for that lesson. But after I finished playing, he looked at me thoughtfully and said, "Let's look at the fingering on that run." Mind blown.

One more comparison between my two most important teachers - I still to this day, at the age of 60, cannot bring myself to call Douglas Reed "Doug." He will always be "Dr. Reed" to me, even though my colleagues call him "Doug." Mrs. Kovatch, however, in my adult years, I called her "Betty." 

Soon after I started lessons, I participated in my first recital. It was held at the Presbyterian church in Monticello, and I was the youngest student to perform. I forgot what piece I played  because I at first had a different piece. Always anxious about things at hand, I practiced a ridiculous amount of time and learned my recital piece in one week. And so, Mrs. Kovatch gave me another, more difficult piece to learn. I was asked to curtsy after playing my piece, and I didn't know how, and that laughter that people do when a child is doing something cute or, more likely, awkward, I felt like everyone was laughing at me. I felt stupid.

One thing that Mrs. Kovatch was great at was arranging field trips and preparing students for contest. I think we did two contests per year, and they were a lot of fun, actually. I was popular with the other piano students, even though at school, I was unpopular and bullied. She would pair me with older girls to play duets for contest and for recitals, and those older girls would talk to me at school. Sometimes they would even invite me over for sleepovers under the guise of "practicing our duet together." What I mean by them talking to me at school - I had a very good friend that went to my dad's church, who was a little older than I. Although I considered her my best friend, because we did all the church things together, she wouldn't talk to me at school.

The contests were different. Many times, we would all ride together or in a caravan to wherever the contest was. And they were at really cool places, like one was at Northwestern University. I didn't understand at that time what a big deal that really was. I always performed well in the contests. But what was more fun than anything was the fellowship with the other students.

I do remember once all of us eating together in a restaurant and for some reason, I ordered a coffee. I don't understand this, because I didn't become a coffee drinker until much later in my life. Mrs. Kovatch loudly proclaimed that I was too young for coffee and again - stupid me. But one of the girls took me aside later and said, "You should've been able to have coffee."

We lived near Purdue University, and we would attend musicals and plays there. Or we would travel to Valparaiso for concerts. My piano teacher was very well connected and knew loads of people, and she was super outgoing. We were always treated with great care everywhere we went with her.

Mrs. Kovatch loved everything Hispanic and Native American. She claimed to speak fluent Spanish. She adored priests and monks and said that her delicious bread recipe was given to her by a monk at St. Meinrad. I asked her several times for the recipe, but she wouldn't give it to me. Her kitchen cabinets were overflowing with fiestaware, and her jewelry, for the most part, was Native American.

Fiestaware
Courtesy Pixabay

Mrs. Kovatch was always looking to find money. I'm not sure why, because she had a really good base of students, and she most likely worked at a church somewhere. She loved fancy clothes, though, so maybe that is part of it. And she loved to travel. She had a yard sale annually. She would collect items all year long and have a huge sale. In later years, I took part in these sales with her. It was a nice way of making a little extra cash, and I enjoyed having Mrs. Kovatch as my friend.

She continually berated her husband, however, so much so that I was afraid of him. He was always nice to me whenever I was there, but I still really worried about being in his presence. It turned out - studying for this blog - that her husband had been a famous professional football player for the Washington Redskins and Green Bay Packers. In Monticello, he worked for the RCA factory. It turns out, he was a good guy!

John Kovatch

She also continually berated her son. I think it might be that he turned on her, but I'm not sure. For some reason, Mrs. Kovatch latched onto my mother, cornering her when she would pick me up for lesson or by calling her on the phone. So, I heard a lot more gossip from her than maybe other students. It was the decade of the 1960s, though. She stated that her son had become a sun worshipper in Seattle. I was unsuccessful in finding much out about Paul for this blog.

The musical disconnect, I believe, is that I wasn't interested - at that time - in classical piano. I wanted to play the top hits, and I loved Karen Carpenter, because she had a low voice like mine, and I could sing her songs while I played. I wanted to play Disney songs. I wanted to play Henry Mancini, Elton John, and Neil Diamond. She wouldn't have any of it, insisting that only the classics were worthy of being played. Sometimes I look at our current modern society and think of all the musicians working behind the scenes in popular music. That could have been me. Instead, everyone pushed me to go the classical route. It's all fine, though. In the end, my life is good, fun, and happy. And as my friend Lynn said, when addressing a piano teacher's group that I'm in, she congratulated us for picking such a noble profession and lifted us up by acknowledging the many lives we have touched as teachers. That's the best legacy anyone could hope for.

Mrs. Kovatch visited us one time in my current hometown of Evansville, Indiana. She stayed at The Executive Inn, and Mom and I went to her hotel room to visit her. I was working full-time at Schuttler Music as a teacher by then, and I asked her what she thought of the Bastian method book series. Mrs. Kovatch treated me like a child and refused to talk with me about teaching piano. Unfortunately, her behavior toward me that night made me upset, and I only had one more interaction with her after that.

In her later years, Mrs. Kovatch and her husband parted ways. She went to Arizona. I don't know if he stayed in Monticello or not. The last time I talked with her was right before she died. She called on the phone and asked me if I would buy her stamp collection for $500. I told her that I wasn't interested, and it hurt both our feelings badly. Mine, because I hated to see her beg, but money was tight for me at that time, now having a child of my own. Hers, because I wouldn't give in and send her money.

Mrs. Kovatch had big shoes to fill, though. Not only does her husband have a famous rating on Find-A-Grave, her father, Vernon McMillan also has one. Mr. McMillan is famous for having a sporting goods store in Terre Haute, Indiana, where he designed the first football helmet.

Betty died 11 Mar 2008 in Tucson, Arizona. She is buried in Lafayette, Indiana.

© 2022 by December Moonlight Publishing, LLC