And Then There Was Winifred

Winifred, the youngest girl, was just as eccentric as her siblings. Unlike the others, she had no idea she was quirky. She thought she was all that a young, then middle aged, then older woman should be. She was, perhaps, a compulsive organizer. She could and did organize people, things, and events with extraordinary efficiency. Winifred was scary, but I never let her scare me. No indeed. She was a hard working member of organizations that got good things done. For the most part, these were affiliated with the Catholic Church. Winifred served where she was wanted and needed, whether at the helm or in the trenches. She, too, mother-henned flocks of needy types. Those she worked with rightfully regarded her with awe. For her services, she, too, received and Pro Ecclesia et Pontifice Medal from the Pope. She, too, deserved it, but . . . .

From her birth, Winifred knew how things should be. Every night after dinner, her father smoked a single cigar and sipped a single shot of Irish whiskey. He was a model of moderation to all but not to Winifred. At age three, she knew with a sublime certitude that he should not puff a cigar or drink any Irish whiskey at all. She hid his cigars and his bottle of Irish whiskey and adamantly refused to reveal where they were hidden. Threats of murder or worse had no effect, so her father found himself buying new cigars, new whiskey, and hiding them from his three year old daughter.

She had a tendency to organize people who didn't want to be organized and situations that didn't need organizing. When her family of four visited our family of three, Winifred "took over." We had only one bathroom, so Winifred made a schedule. While my father slept in a conscious effort to avoid the early morning bustle of baths by schedule instead of by demand, while Mother and Uncle Squire escaped to the kitchen to inhale coffee and talk, and while the twins and I horsed around, Winifred with clipboard in hand ordered us about. "Petite Pain, get ready to take your bath. The bathroom will be yours in two minutes. . . . Petite Pain, the bathroom is yours. . . . Petite Pain. your time is up. Get out of the tub and pull the plug. You have two minutes to dry off and get out." She'd clean the tub, begin filling it for the next scheduled bather, make the general announcement, "If anyone needs to use the bathroom, it will be free for two minutes." She'd tell the next bather scheduled, "Get ready to take your bath. The bathroom will be yours in two minutes." So our mornings of bathing by schedule went. She managed to get us all washed and dressed in less than 90 minutes. The tub had been scrubbed between each use. We were now ready to have a quick lunch and go out on the town. When Aunt Irene and her family of four visited, no schedules were made. We washed, we dressed, we ate our quick lunch, and we were out on the town, all within an hour's time.

The Archbishop of Omaha had her pegged. He called her Mother Superior. Once, when another Mother Superior type, Rose Kennedy, came to Omaha to campaign for her son, the Archbishop asked Winifred if Rose could stay with her. Other Catholics had larger and fancier homes, and Winifred and Squire were staunchly conservative Republicans, but Winifred, the chosen one, said, "Sure. Why not." In time Rose arrived, spent a day campaigning, and then went to Winifred's to spend the night. In the morning, as the two Mothers Superior prepared to visit the Archbishop, Rose asked Winifred if she should wear a hat. Of course, Rose would ask. Winifred knew the Archbishop. Rose did not. Winifred knew the protocol on the wearing of hats. Rose did not. Make no mistake. Winifred loved protocol. "Let there be rules so I can follow them and then make sure everyone else follows them, too." The Archbishop knew the two Mothers Superior would be kindred spirits.

Winifred had a plastic Jesus on her stove and a mangle in her basement. Her breakfasts and her baking were divinely inspired. Obsessed with good grooming, she had actually taken courses on how to do laundry, so all the washables in her domain were spotless. Winifred said her prayers every night, usually late because she'd been organizing and doing good works all day. She had a prayer book filled with prayer cards, and she needed a bright light to read them all. When she rattled her rosary beads, her charm bracelet rattled, too. She sounded like a flamenco dancer. At our house, she didn't want to keep her husband or the children awake, so she did her rattling and reading while my father tried to sleep on a nearby couch. How many people, my non-Catholic father wondered, did she keep awake? "Winifred," he'd say, "Let's have fewer prayers and more consideration." If she didn't get the message, he'd say, "Winifred, get the hell out of here."

Winifred's hair turned white when she was about 28. She parted it in the middle, teased poufs over her ears, and had a roll like a sausage in back. She looked just like George Washington. She really did.

I loved Mother's quirky family. I loved Winifred.

Parents, teach your children at an early age to relish quirks. They'll never meet a person they cannot like. Never. They'll like themselves. They'll even enjoy their parents.