Baseball

By Molly

Dad loves baseball. On summer nights he would open all the doors on his truck and turn the radio on to the Twins game. He taught my brother Danny how to pitch. Danny would throw pitch after pitch at our barn. All the windows on the barn were broken at one time or another from Danny learning to pitch.

We used to all play baseball together. We used the shell of a snapping turtle as second base. Home base was a rock imbedded in the ground and if a ball flew over the pine trees it was a home run.

In grade school Mary was pitcher and Bridget was her catcher. This inspired me to go out for softball when I was in seventh grade. I had never played on a team other than the Donnelly team, but I knew the position I wanted to play, catcher. After trying to catch for my brother who through line drives at my head, I thought I would be good at it. I showed up to the first practice of the year and told the coach I was a catcher. I was new to the school so he believed me.

He took the catchers aside and said he was going to throw us some pitches. I was second up. He wound up, threw the pitch and hit me straight in the nose. My nose started to bleed all over. I spent the rest of the first practice sitting in the corner with ice on my face.

That year we had a girl who was a really good catcher playing on our team. She started every game, and I would warm up the other pitchers. It went really well until she hurt her knee. Then the coach made me play for three games. I would crouch into position and whisper, "Please hit the ball, please hit the ball." If it was hit, I didn't have to catch it. During one of these games, my chemistry teacher was the ump. He crouched behind me and called out strike or ball. At one point he heard me whispering and started to laugh. After about the 50th missed catch he started to help me out. He would stop the ball with his foot or slyly block the pitch himself. I was so grateful.

Meat

By Theresa

When I was 7 I decided to become a vegetarian. When people ask me why I decided to become a vegetarian at such a young age, images of raw meat carcasses, random animal parts, and animals rolling around in feces are conjured in my mind, and I wonder why they haven't become one. There were many factors that added up to ensure my vegetarianism. The first one I can remember were the days of chicken butchering. I will admit that in the beginning I enthusiastically participated in the affair-I mean how could I miss out, I was the gizzard cleaner. It was exciting because it was a chore that we were all together for since there was a job for each of us. But after slicing open so many brown slimy gizzards and scraping the rocks off the tough inner skin, and watching mom pull out foot after foot of brown intestines, and smelling the strong sickening odor of the innards of the chickens, the hunger in me began to die. It also didn't help that all the feathers were not always plucked fully off and when I thought of this as mom plopped a freshly thawed out chicken in to a pot to begin soup, I felt a knot grow in my stomach.

Watching them butcher a cow was equally as bad but in its own rite. The smells and sounds were only amplified with the larger beast. Cows were not something I could help butcher, but I do remember watching the process, somewhat in horror. I couldn't watch the process too long as the smell was too overwhelming and the sound of the knife cutting through the flesh of the cow sent shivers through my body. Once when I was older my mom had some Native American friends butcher a bull in our backyard. Before the bull was even finished being butchered they had lit the grill and started barbecuing the meat. I was so glad I was a vegetarian as they offered me a hot piece of testicle. It was beyond me how anyone could have an appetite for meat after witnessing that.

But the worst was the day I came home from school on a cold, rainy day. It was sometime in the late fall and Danny had been deer hunting that season. By this time I was well into my days as a vegetarian and absolutely loathed deer hunting season, so much so that I would make signs and write stories condemning the recreation. I hated being outside on those fall days listening to the piercing sound of a shot gun in the distance. And whenever I saw deer I would wish them safety through that dark season. I hated when Danny was successful in his hunt and I was shamed by the bounty he would proudly hang from a tree in our front yard. I looked at the dead deer with scorn and pity, I was angry that it hadn't out smarted my brother. This particular year was especially depressing as I believe we had 2 dead deer on our hands. I can't remember the details, but for some reason my parents had one of the deer butchered at home, instead of having a professional do it. It would have been tolerable if this butchering was that simple, but by some bad decision (due to the cold, wet weather) my parents and my uncle and his wife decided to do the butchering on our kitchen table. When I walked into the house that afternoon I stared in shock at the overwhelming scene. It is one thing to see a beautiful deer struck down and hung in your tree, it is another thing entirely to see that wild animal flung across the entire length of your kitchen table. It was too much for me to handle, I couldn't stick around and watch how it turned out. It looked like a horrible mess to me and I needed to escape it. I quickly got the low-down and bolted to my room shutting the door behind me. Luckily Molly was right there with me so I could find some solace in knowing that she too found the whole scene disgusting and frightening. We hid upstairs the entire night, trying to block out what was happening down in the kitchen. This became difficult once they began cooking the meat for dinner. The smell of the venison was so strong and sickening. The smoke drifted in to our room from the hole in our floor and burnt my eyes. We grabbed towels and clothing to block the hole and prevent the smell from coming up and we opened our windows to bring fresh air in. Timmy, who was still very young, had come upstairs to get away as well, and I remember crying with him. I yelled to my parents that it was so horrible and I couldn't believe what they were doing. I was so happy when it was over, and all the evidence was gone, although it took awhile for me to eat at our kitchen table.

Uncle Steve and Uncle Tim butchering a cow.

Gum, Candy

By Mary

Candy. I was never allowed to have candy when I was little. My parents met working in a macrobiotic restaurant which I believe instilled in them a need to only serve us rice and miso soup, they weren't completely successful with that, but they did manage to cut out sweets. They also had their own restaurant at two different times, and we were always told that Dad taught Mom how to cook.

I only remember Dad cooking for us once. Mom went somewhere and he was tasked with cooking us corn and potato chowder. I loved it when my mom cooked this for us and was quite excited to have Dad cooking it for us as I was sure he would do a better job than my mom. He had to. He had taught her to cook after all. It took him hours and hours to cook the chowder, and when he put it at the table in front of us it was gray and hard and lumpy. It looked like the wall paper paste my mom would mix up to hang up wall paper – her paste was homemade and never quite kept the paper on. I scooped up some chowder because it was my only choice for nourishment. The wall paper paste tasted better than the soup, and I knew as I was frequently sampling the paste. I had a penchant for the taste of paste and glue. Nothing I liked better than a good sip of glue—I wasn’t phased by the threats that it was made from horses’ hoofs, sounded organic to me.

Even better than glue was gum. We were allowed to go trick or treating but not eat the candy. I never knew where it would go, but it would disappear. Bridget had a little table and chairs that were given to her for Christmas from Grandma. One of the legs was broken off the table, either because we were sitting on it or Dad had never properly put it together. We were sad it was broken and got my dad to fix it for us. Instead of reaching for a screwdriver and screw, he reached on top of the fridge and pulled out our Halloween candy. He gave me a piece of gum from it told me to chew it. I was upset that that was where our candy was but more excited than anything that I got a piece of gum. When it was soft in my mouth, Dad asked for it, I sneakily only gave him half of it. He used the chewed up gum I gave him to stick the leg back on the table (which looking back at it now boggles my mind, my dad worked in a chair factory for awhile, making chairs, he had to know a different way to get the leg to stick on the table other than gum, unless that’s what they did in his chair factory, my dad is small—very small, barely 5 feet and weighs 90 pounds-- maybe it was an elf chair factory? I totally can see elves fixing chairs that way).

After the table was fixed, I got on the bus to go kindergarten, and I was absolutely thrilled to have a tiny bit of gum in mouth. The only way I usually got gum was digging under the bus seats. It was incredible; there was a plethora of chewed gum stuck to the undersides of the bus seats. I didn’t understand how one could give up their gum so easily and abandon it on the bus, but it gave me so many to choose from, did I want pink bubble gum? White mint gum? I could have any kind I wanted; it was there for my taking. But I had to be stealth, I knew not everyone was as excited as I was to chew the gum on the under sides of the seats. I was one of the last kids dropped off on the bus route. The seats with the most, best gum were at the back of the bus. As more kids where dropped off, I would make my way to the back of the bus, where the good gum seats were. I would wait for the perfect opportunity, when no one was sitting across from me and anyone sitting behind or in front of me were distracted. I would feel around for the perfect piece and grab it and throw in my mouth when the opportunity struck. Success. I was so happy to be chewing gum.

The only other time I got fresh, non ABC gum, we were out as a family at Bridgeman’s Ice Cream. Right next to our booth was a dispenser with gum packages that you could buy for $0.25. Gum, all I could think or see the whole meal was gum, gum, gum. I had to have that gum. I didn’t know how I was going to get it, but it would be mine. I didn’t have $0.25 but I would get the gum. When we were getting up to leave, I waited to leave last from the booth and quickly snuck a pack into my pocket when no one was looking. In the parking lot getting in the car, I was thrilled, thrilled that I had the gum, but scared, now what. What happen if Mom found out? How was I going to chew it? I had to chew it. It had to go in my mouth, I kept fondling it in my pocket, gum, gum, gum.

We stopped at the grocery store next. I was obsessed, there was more gum at the store, I needed more gum. How was I going to get more gum? I saw gum in the gum ball machines. It had to be mine. My mom was distracted. I knew there was change in her pocket. I snuck my hand in her pocket and found a quarter when she wasn’t looking. She was paying for the groceries, and I snuck to the candy machine and got a huge round ball of gum. It went in my pocket with the other gum. Gum! I was so excited. This gum needed to get in my mouth. I thought about it the whole half hour ride home. It was dark when we got home, the groceries were brought in, everyone was getting ready for bed. Perfect chance for me to chew my gum. I put the big blue ball of gum in mouth. I tried to bite down; it wouldn’t break. There was blue all over my mouth and lips and my mouth was filled with this huge… jawbreaker, I couldn’t get it to get smaller I sucked as hard and as fast as I could. My mom found me. “What do you have! Where did you get that?” (The blue all over my face must have given it away.) I started crying. I couldn’t tell her. She yelled at me more and brought me into the bathroom and made me spit my precious gum (umm.. jawbreaker) into the toilet. My precious gum that I had fought so hard to get. She made me flush the toilet; I cried more. She didn’t know about the gum in my coat pocket though, the packet. I couldn’t eat it now, I knew I would get in trouble, I went to catholic school, I knew I was going to hell for stealing. I threw the gum away at my first chance and confessed to the stealing at my next confession. The Hail Mary’s never took away my stealing guilt.

Danny, Mary, and Bridget hyped up on life, not sugar.

An Outsider’s Perspective of Sheila Donnelly

Becky Spinler wrote the following blog. Becky grew up on a farm about 5 miles away from us. We went to Catholic school together and she was my best friend (if you're keeping tracking, my doll was not named after her, it came with the name Becky, but it was very fitting.) Becky's post reminds me how easy it is to internalize things and make up what everyone is thinking about you. I assumed everyone knew we were poor; a couple of times kids in school brought it up to me, and it made me feel very insecure and mad. I thought everyone knew-- we were on food stamps, we had junker cars, my parents had to clean the Catholic we went to pay for our tuition-- but from Becky's post it's clear not everyone saw it that way.

Additionally, I always thought Becky's mom was so much fun. She was always laughing, she made great meals, was kind and loving, and she always had a clean car and house which made me jealous. I know she is terribly missed.

Thank you, Becky, for these fun memories and for giving me another perspective. - Mary

Mary & Becky participating in a read-a-thon at Litomysl.
By Rebekah Spinler

I always thought of Sheila as the “cool” mom. She seemed young, liked to joke and goof around, and she was always screaming funny things at the top of her lungs. To show respect, we were technically supposed to call her “Mrs. Donnelly”. She preferred “Sheila”, and I secretly believed this was because she never wanted to grow old. I always admired her dark hair and the way she would purse her lips together. I also liked it when she would wear dark pink lipstick. She didn’t put it on all that often, so you knew it was a special occasion when she did.

Going to a private Catholic school, we depended on our moms to drive us to our volleyball, cheerleading or softball games. Sheila drove us quite often. She had a yellow car with a burgundy vinyl top. I do not remember the make or model. It always had a loud muffler. I always found myself quite content by the loud muffler, and Sheila screaming at the top of her lungs. She would say things like, “Help! I can’t stop!” as if the car had no brakes just to mess with us. We laughed! One time, on our way to a softball game, Sheila pulled out too far at an intersection in Owatonna and missed the green light waiting for traffic to pass. She backed up to behind the white line at the light to wait for the next light. She never put the car back into drive. She stepped on it hard at the light, and we went screeching backwards, screaming as we nearly missed the truck behind us. We were all highly amused. She acted like that was supposed to happen! There was never a dull moment with Sheila!

My mom always liked Sheila. I knew that Sheila entertained my mom as well with her wild ways. She always made my mom laugh! They spent time together doing various activities at the church and school including baking biscuits and hauling us bratty kids around. I was always jealous that Sheila was so creative and made their Halloween costumes as well as the costumes for the Christmas plays. They were always unique. My Mom just bought mine at Wal-Mart. As I read Mary’s blog about being embarrassed by the homemade costumes, it’s shocking to think how we thought so differently!

Sheila attempted to be our cheerleading coach at the Catholic school. I say “attempted” because she didn’t really have much to work with. Some of us girls were rolly-polly (aka fat) and the rest just didn’t have the cheerleader knack. We were farm kids, but our boy’s basketball team needed cheerleaders! After school, we would have cheerleading practice. Practices didn’t happen to often- just often enough for us girls to learn the jigs and flail our arms in the air. We practiced on the red and white mats in the basement of the church. I knew I could never be as good of a cheerleader as Sheila. She was naturally a loud person and was flexible! She could kick, jump and flip like an Olympic medalist. I remember yelling “Do it again!” over and over to her flips and cartwheels. Sheila was one of the best entertainers I can remember as a kid.

The cheerleading squad Sheila (picture upper left) coached that Becky (top second from the right) and Mary (bottom second from the right) were on.
As I read the Donnelly sister’s blog, the girls have mentioned several times that the family was “poor”. As a kid, I really had no idea. I was clueless the Donnelly family did not have a lot of money. As a kid, that was not important. They had almost every farm animal possible and a big yard to play in. I loved going to their house to see the big pen of sheep and to play with the dog and cats. I will never forget the dog named, Needle-Nose. He had a long pointy nose, hence his name, and his fur was always full of cockle-burrs from roaming through the fields. To the west, they had a long back driveway. I remember watching their dad bale hay the old-fashioned way while walking down that back driveway. To the east, they had a large pasture with big oak trees that housed their cattle and horses. I despised the chickens; I always thought they were going to peck at me. There was always some place to hide at the Donnelly farm. Truly, their mom was so “cool” that I just liked being around her and was always excited for an opportunity to venture to their farm.

Tom (Dad) and Uncle Tim baling hay the old-fashioned way.
In 1994, Sheila came to my family’s farm and wrote a story about my family. The article was about living and working together as a family on the farm. She took pictures of my sisters and me milking cows and pitching manure. It was published in the Austin Daily Herald. One of my girlfriends saved the article and recently gave it to me. It made my heart pitter patter at childhood memories. I had forgotten all about that article, and without the reminder, may have tucked away some of those memories forever.

Thanks, Mrs. Donnelly, for the laughs, memories, and being a cool mom.

Sheila (Mom) telling a story.

Theresa is Mine

By Bridget

A few weeks before Theresa was born, Mary and I were fighting over something. I don't remember what we were fighting over, but Mary won. I was crying and to get me to stop, Mom said that the baby she was pregnant with would be mine. She said I could be the baby's second mom, and I could help care for him or her. I now realize that her saying that really didn't mean anything, but to my 5 year old self, I was sure I'd gotten the better deal. So from then until Theresa was born, I bragged about how the baby was going to be mine.

The day after Christmas, early in the morning, Danny and Mary woke me up to say our mom was in labor. I didn't want to get up as it was still dark and the bed was so warm, but my excitement to see my baby won out. Downstairs, we snuggled up together on the couch in the other room from where Theresa was being born.

We could watch from the other room, but I could only see the women who were there to help our mom. She had two of her friends and the midwife who had delivered Molly and would later deliver Timmy. It seemed to take a long time, but then I was called into the room.

They told me I could cut the umbilical cord. I was a bit scared, but my mom's friend Caron smiled at me and I felt better. The scissors were placed in my hands and guided to the cord. I squeezed with all my 5 year old might, but couldn't cut all the way through. I felt so disappointed when the midwife had to help me.

Theresa was very thin when she was born. There was something that was wrong and required a trip to the hospital. This worried me immensely. It was so cold and she seemed so fragile, too fragile to leave the house. My parents also had to say that she had accidentally been born at home. I was scared the whole time they were gone. Scared that she wouldn't be well and scared they would take her away because she'd been born at home. I was so relieved when they returned with my baby.

Bridget, Mom & baby Theresa
Theresa was a screamer. She screamed loudly and often. As expected, this would often frustrate my mom. Having my own child, I now completely understand how hard babies are, and I don't even have four older children also needing my attention. When Theresa was a baby, I did not understand this. So when Theresa had screamed and cried forever and our mom would exclaim that if she didn't stop, she'd throw her across the room, I really thought she'd do it. As she was mine and I was responsible for her, I had to protect her. So I told myself I'd have to catch Theresa. I stayed close by, expecting at any moment to have to run and save her.

Of course it never happened and eventually Theresa stopped screaming. Throughout our childhood, I always felt a bond to Theresa, as I still considered her mine. I was especially pleased when she actually liked my clothing style, although she has much improved upon it. I'm sure our mom's gift of Theresa to me was a spur of the moment, get-me-to-stop-crying decision, but I've always been incredibly happy to be her "second" Mom.


Bridget & Theresa Belly Dancing

Cheap Beer & Belly Dancing

By Molly

I got grounded a lot when I was younger. One day I told Mom I was going shopping in Rochester with my friend Tara and her family. Tara told her mom the same thing. We actually spent the day at Tara's boyfriend's house drinking Dr. Mcgillicuddy's and making out with our boyfriends. Two hours after the time I told Mom I would be home, she called Tara's house and talked to her mom. Silly moms figured out neither of us were in Rochester with the other's family. I had no idea when I pulled into our driveway that Mom had caught on. She stopped my boyfriend and I halfway up the driveway. She stood in front of the truck he was driving. Then she pulled me out of the truck and started screaming at me. She dragged me into the house. She didn't even let me kiss my boyfriend goodbye.

She grounded me, but my groundings never stuck. I had three older siblings who had softened my mom up for me. If I had been the oldest, I know I would have never gotten away with all the things I did.

One night when I was 17 my parents spent the evening at their friends' house in Austin. Austin is a good 45 minute drive, so I felt safe they would be gone a few hours. I invited my new boyfriend and his friends over to have some beers and hang out.

After about an hour, we saw headlights coming up the driveway. It was too late to run and hide, so we all just sat at the kitchen table hoping for the best. Mom came in and said, "What is going on here?" Prime example of growing soft, if it had been Danny or Mary and their friends she would have kicked in their car windows and slashed their tires.

I was scared, but she just circled the table picking up beer cans. "Oh," she said, holding a can of Bud Light, "How can you drink such cheap beer? This will make you so sick."

We all laughed uncomfortably. She then sat at the table. "So, Mom, what were you and Dad up to tonight?" I asked trying to ease the mood.

"I was with my friends, we learned a new number at Belly Dance Class" she answered. One of the boys, trying to be nice, said "That is cool."

Mom got a big smile on her face and said, "Really? Ok, let me show you." She walked over to the CD player, which was on the microwave that we had never plugged in but made a really good table, and put in her new dance CD.

She started to do a solo belly dance in the kitchen for my boyfriend and his four friends. Mom would dance in front of each boy for a few moments smiling and undulating. It was worse than having to explain slashed tires. When she was done, all the guys complimented her through blushed smiles. They had a new appreciation of the ancient art of the belly dance.

Mom in her belly dancing outfit

I was so embarrassed, but for her next act she pulled frozen steaks out of the freezer and cooked them up for my tipsy friends. It was beyond embarrassing for me but a nice night for a 17 year old boy: a dance from a lady, some beers, and a good steak.

No Longer the Baby

By Theresa

When I was younger, I was the baby of the family for 8 wonderful years. I didn't realize how much I enjoyed being the baby of the family until this position was usurped. I will never forget the day I found out Mom was pregnant with Timmy. Molly, Mom, Dad and I were all having dinner, homemade pizza. Bridget was there as well, but she wasn't eating with us as she was on the phone and leaning against the wood stove. She already knew the big news, but wanted to watch it unfold as Molly and I found out, and she was relaying the whole thing to her friend on the other end of the phone.

I was pretty excited about the meal because it wasn't something we ate often. Soon after we began eating, Mom said that she had something she had to tell us, and she sounded pretty serious. I can't remember if Mom or Dad said it, but I remember the news felt like a punch to the stomach. There was shock and then there were tears that didn't stop. My mouth was filled with food, but my throat wouldn't work to swallow. I dropped my head to my plate, spit out my food, and sobbed, "WHY! Why? Why..." to my parents, maybe there was some hows and whens in there too. To make matters worse, Molly was so excited and happy. She had no sympathy, probably because I was the one who took her position as baby. She had always loved telling me the story about how shortly after I was born, she couldn't take anymore of my screaming so she told Mom to "throw that baby out in the snow." I think she was happy to see my tears.

Bridget was talking quietly to her friend with a horrified look on her face as she watched me cry, she was telling her friend everything that was happening. I couldn't believe that everyone wasn't reacting the same way I was. Mom told me to come to her and she comforted me as I cried the rest of my tears. I remember feeling some bitterness towards her since she was the reason for my agony. Once the shock wore off, the news wasn't so horrible but I still wanted to be the baby of the family. The next day at school all the teachers teased me about what had happened; Molly had relied the story. They said things like, "Ohhh, are you sad you're not going to be the baby anymore? Hehehe." I didn't find any humor in their jokes, and I was angry at Molly for telling them how I reacted.

As time passed, I became more used to the idea, but I still didn't find it ideal. It was during this same period that I thought the world of Bridget. I wanted to be just like her, I got jealous when Molly spent time with her and I wasn't there, and I hated when Bridget wasn't around. About five months after I had found out about the pregnancy, Bridget and I and Mary were riding our bikes around the block. We were talking about the upcoming baby and Bridget made the simple statement that she was excited about its arrival, Mary said she was too. I had no idea they felt this way and I asked Bridget, "Really?" When I looked at her and saw that she was serious, something changed in me. Suddenly, I saw that this could actually be something to look forward to and not dread. The more I thought about it, the more I realized how exciting it actually was. And it really was wonderful because he was (and still is!) an adorable, sweet, and lovable baby brother. I only hope he appreciates his position as much as I did.
Molly, Theresa, and baby Timmy.