Br. Mark Dohle, OCSO
I am the 3rd of 11 children. There are 10 of us still living. The youngest being 49, the oldest 67, and for the most part we are all in decent health. Michael, who was the 10th of 11, died in 1958 three days after birth. He was three months premature and back in those days it was common for preemies to die. I remember sitting on the bed with my mom, who had just come back from the hospital. We talked about it, and at the time, it did not really register for I was just 9 years old, and did not fully understand the loss for my mother, or for that matter, the loss for all of us. As I get older, that loss from time to time comes to the surface, each time my understanding deepening of the tragedy of loosing a sibling, and the hole that can leave; at least for me. I find this strange, missing someone I never saw, touched or bounded with.
Skip the oldest, was from my mothers first marriage, which ended quickly in divorce. Her first husband was abusive towards her, but only once, she soon got out of that situation. Mom worked in a restaurant called ‘Parkmore’, a chain that was popular in St. Louis in the 40’s. She worked there with Freda her sister for a few years during the war, and for a time after. Both my mother and Freda where classic beauties and I am sure that they had their share of suitors, who vied for their attention. Both of them had long black hair, blue eyes and sun sensitive skin. My mother told me that she liked working there, and during the war they would work all day, and go out at night, bowling or dancing. “It was more innocent back then” she would tell me, “just fun”, nothing else.
My mother caught my dad’s attention and tried to get to know her personally, but at that time my mother was still nervous about getting serious with another man. She was still trying to get over her first marriage. The abuse she suffered, though it was not prolonged in any way, did make her wary of men. Necia, who was the manager of the restaurant, told my mother that my father was a good man and would not hurt her in any way. So she allowed my dad in, they dated, married, and well as you know; 11 loaves popped out of the oven. My mother used to tell me. “Mark, all your dad has to do is look at me, and I get pregnant”. My mom told me that she loved being pregnant, she always felt better when carrying a child and child birth; at least the first 9 children, were not very difficult. In fact I was born on the farm in Missouri, no problem. The last two were cesarean.
There were 7 boys and 4 girls total. Skip, Robert, Mark (me), David, Sissy, Judy and Jane (twins), Victor, Craig, Michael (deceased), and Georgia. Life could be chaotic, loud, with lots of fighting and screaming at one another. Yet there was also a lot of love; the fighting, which is normal among siblings and I feel necessary, never hid that fact. There was never much privacy, unless one went inward, which I did with a vengeance when young, but as the years sped by, I had to change. In a large family being quiet and withdrawn is not a good idea, nope not one bit. It was good to be drawn out, and I learned to speak up and fight for what was mine and boy did the bothers fight.
Skip was the oldest, my mother’s first, who was also 6 years older than my father’s first. So he had a hard time of it. He was the designated baby sitter for us, and when he was a teenager he pretty much had to drag some of us around with him when he went out with a couple of friends. I always felt a little sorry for him having to do that all the time, but being the oldest has certain responsibilities attached to it, and he being so much older, they were probably heavier than they could have been.
In St. Louis, my dad worked for the phone company, but as the family grew, the money he made was not enough so he struck out on his own. He bought a gas station in East St Louis, in a very rough neighborhood. From time to time he would take us there to spend some time with him. Robert, David and me would go on weekends and spend the day with Dad and Skip, who also worked there part time, without pay of course. My dad was not a good businessman, for he was too kind, and would give gas to some of his clients knowing that they would not be able to pay. They needed gas to get to work, and my dad would give it them. I am sure some took advantage of him, but I am proud of him for doing that anyway. In the end the gas station was not supporting us very well.
In early 1958, my mother noticed a ad for a job opening in Panama, for a cable splicer; which was what my dad was. She so sent it in and my dad after a short time was notified that he got the job. He balked, but my mother ever the realist let him know what his options were. Bankruptcy here, or a new life there in Panama; so he went.
He had to go down before we did to prepare everything. It was very difficult when he had to leave, it was almost like he died, but we knew we would see him soon. While we waited we had to get shots, lots of them. Yellow fever, malaria, tetanus, and some others, but being so young I did not know all of them. So off we went to an army base to get our shots. Since my dad now worked for the army, we were able to get medical care for free. I can still remember the large waiting room, waiting for my doom, for I feared shots at that young age. The thought of a large needle going into my arm was not pleasant in the least. So I decided I would go first and simply get it over with. That way I could laugh at the other nine as they went to their doom. So when the nurse came out I asked to please allow me to go first. I think what I really did was to jump up and down and say “me first, me first”. She did look at me kind of funny, but allowed me to go in before the others. I had a good time laughing at the others who were still afraid, while I was way past it, it was fun. Best to get the bad stuff over with as quick as possible, why put it off, over the hump, then smooth sailing, at least until the next one, which will always show up sooner or later.
The doctor told my mom that our arms would be very sore, and we may feel a little sick for a day or two. So she put all 8 of us, skip was too big, being 17 to be with us, in her and dad’s bed room. So we stayed in the big bed, fought each other, cried, whined, ate ice cream and watched lots of TV, also no school….so all in all, a good time was had by all.
The trip to Panama took I think three days. We had to make lots of connecting flights, so my mother and poor Skip had their hands full during that time. It started in the St. Louis airport. We were running around, excited, hyper, screaming, and running down the up escalator, an up the down one. Of course we had to make a million trips to the bath room, wanting everything in sight. So much new stuff to look at, it was really overwhelming. Of course add to that a bit of anxiety, caffeinated soda, plus chocolate candy and what do you get: children who act like kangaroos on speed.
On the plane, we were most likely crashing, so we were quiet. I remember how bad my ears hurt, and the stewardess passing out gum for people to chew on, to help pop their ears. I also entertained myself by not trying to get air sick, which I had very limited luck with. After my third bag, the stewardess just put a pile of them in the pouch in the back of the seat in front of me. I was really ready to get off the plane when we landed. The air sickness lessened after that, I just filled two bags per flight on the next three planes.
We stayed at a military base for one night. We had joining rooms, and again, poor Skip in charge. I remember a meal of hamburgers and french fries, which always seemed to taste better when a child, lots and lots of fries. Today still one of my favorite’s foods, fries, I have been know to eat a pound of them from time to time. I think they will be the death of me.
We arrived in Panama on the 8th of December 1958, and I fell in love with it as soon as I got off the plane. Though the air was a bit more humid than what I was used to, but everything was so green and pleasant. I loved the jungle, the homes, some of them high up on stilts, and the people were very interesting with their bajan Jamaican accents. The trip over to the Atlantic side was 50 miles, a long way in that country, since the speed limits was impossibly slow, yet the scenery was so exotic that I did not noticed the time at all. I liked out home, the neighborhood, everything. The stress was also much less since my dad had a very good job and was an excellent and intelligent worker. He eventually became the one in charge of the Atlantic side department for Telephones, for the army that is. Another plus, my nightmares ended. For years I used to have nightmares every night. B movie type; with green fog, music, and of course the beloved zombies who tried to get me, and poor me running in the cold dark, dank, dastardly woods, trying to get away with no one to help me. Nope they ended the day we arrived. So much less stress, no snow, which I always hated, just a nice safe place to live.
Except for school, which I always found a bother; life in Panama was like living in a Huckleberry Finn novel. Jungle, swimming, lots of animals to keep as pets, yes it was truly a paradise for children; and also for my parents. I know my Mother loved it down there. I have no idea what would have become of us if we stayed in the States, and I am glad I did not have to find out. The finding of the ad, seemed almost providential, or perhaps it was.
