Burning down the house

The title pretty much says it all. If my Dad hadn't needed water from the sink upstairs, I would have accomplished burning down the house.

The Hippie, a.k.a. my sister, Lynn

It was the December before my 6th birthday. My older sister, Lynn, was 17. She was lounging in the recliner in the family room downstairs watching TV. She was a hippie. More trouble was soon to come for her making bad decisions, but she made a particularly bad one that day when she asked this 5 year old to go upstairs to Mom's room to get Mom's lighter so she could have a cigarette. 

Mom knew she smoked. My Mom smoked like crazy so she couldn't exactly tell her not to. Dad must have known too because he was home that day.  Mom must have been at work. 

It was around Christmas time. My mom had a huge box of Christmas paper in her bedroom to wrap presents. I noticed it when I ran in like a dutiful little girl and got the lighter off of Mom's side table. I brought it to Lynn. She lit her cigarette. She told me to bring it back upstairs to Mom's table. Mom liked to have a cigarette while she was watching TV in bed at night and would be mad if her lighter was missing. 

Up I ran the two floors to Mom's room with the lighter in my hand. I started playing with it. Lighters are kind of tricky you know.  But I was a big girl and I thought it was kind of cool to see Lynn flick it and the flame appear. 

So I tried it. Couldn't light it. Kept trying. And trying. Finally I got it. This was easy.  I was going to look cool and smoke like Lynn some day, I thought to myself. Look how grown up I look.  Ooh...look at the pretty paper! I wonder if it would really burn like the tip of Lynn's cigarette? 

So I flicked the lighter and put the flame to just a wee corner of the wrapping paper. 

The house I nearly burned down. 28 Diana Lane. 

"Whoosh!" It caught fire instantaneously, and spread down the roll quickly. Then to the next roll. I stood there. Confused. What was happening? Why didn't it just stay on that one piece that I lit? I tried to blow on it to put it out. Bad idea. It just spread it down the entire box of paper. Now I was scared.

I knew I'd get a spanking if anyone found out what I had done. So I backed out of the room and closed the door. And went to my room to play. And pretended it never happened. I had no concept of the danger everyone was in. Or how fire spreads. I just figured I would deny I had anything to do with it or blame the cat when they found the burned paper. In my 5 year old mind this made perfect sense. 

Luckily, my Dad happened upon the situation. I was told later that there was some issue with the water in the kitchen and Dad just by coincidence went upstairs to my mother's bathroom to fill a pot with water.  When he opened the door, the flames were shooting up from the box near the door like a bonfire.

The arsonist. Me. Age 5

What I remember from that day was Dad yelling "Fire!" and everyone who was home was confused and disbelieving that there really was an emergency. Dad was a pretty mild mannered guy who never raised his voice. So they realized quickly this was no joke.   I was in total denial and shock. For sure I was getting spanked, was all I could think of. My Dad shouted for us to run across the street to the Long's house and he told Lynn to have them call the fire department. I think my brother Rick was home, but I think my oldest brother Chuck had moved out by then. I don't have any recollection of my sister Robin being there, but maybe she was. 

What I do recall is that Lynn saying it was all my fault. And that she had nothing to do with it. Hey, she had enough trouble she was getting into with the whole hippie thing--she needed to deflect the blame on this one. She still brings this up at holidays, believe it or not. Yep. Still all my fault.

 I started to cry when the fire engines came. I watched them come from where I was standing in front of  Bobby Long's living room window. It was quite the excitement in our quiet little neighborhood. All the neighbors came outside to find out what was going on. I had no concept of what I had done until that moment.  Mom was livid with me when she was called home and saw what had happened. What was I thinking, she said. Why did I do that, she said. Then she reamed into Lynn for trusting a 5 year old with a lighter. What was she thinking, she said. Why did she do that, she said. 

The fire was contained to the bedroom and that one wall where the box was. There were burn marks on the wall and I recall my mother having to replace the carpet due to the burn and the water damage. Luckily no one was hurt and the damage was minimal. 

I felt a lot of guilt for that incident for a lot of years. But now it's become sort of those kooky Horner stories we tell from time to time. 

I never felt the desire to smoke as I grew up. I'm guessing this incident had something to do with it. 

Milkshakes and Bazooka gum

Dad still took us places. We didn’t do things as a complete family anymore, but me being the youngest I didn’t have any frame of reference about that because I was too little to ever remember us doing things with both my mother and father.

About 1973. Rocking a fabulous pantsuit and posing in 

front of my Dad's VW bug. Probably on our way to Bart's.

My special place to go with Dad, usually just him and me, was Bart's. Bart's was, and is, a popular drive-in restaurant in my hometown that had been around since the 1950’s. One side of Bart's sold hot dogs, hamburgers, fries, milkshakes and other delicious drive-in kind of food. The other side was a little convenience-like store where you could get some basic food items like milk and bread. And candy. 

I loved Bart's. It was a special treat to go there for a milkshake. There were no seats at Bart's. You drove up, walked up to the counter and ate and drank right there. Or you brought it back to your car. 

I remember being so small that I used to count the wads of gum people stuck under the counter because I couldn’t see over the counter.  Dad would order his coffee milkshake. He would order a strawberry one for me. I could never finish them. They were enormous.  Dad never used a straw. They all knew Dad there and he would make small talk with the owners, Bob or Bart Dillon, while he leaned against the counter. 

Mr. Dillon. He made plenty of my

milkshakes when I was a little girl. Photo

from barts-drive.com website. 

I would hold my milkshake and go over to the connecting double sided glass door between the restaurant and the store. The door wasn’t used, but  I liked to push my face up against it to see through a peg board that was between the two panes of glass. I thought it was a special secret that I had discovered that there was a large poster of Santa Claus they were storing between the glass panes. I liked peeking through the holes to see Santa.

After milkshakes I could usually talk Dad into going next door and getting some candy. Bazooka bubble gum. The cost was 1 cent.  Or Fireballs. Also 1 cent. I preferred the Bazooka gum because there was always a little comic wrapped around the gum. 

Carol Dillon  was wife of one of the owners and she used to work the register in the store. She had big, blond, poofy hair and pink lipstick and was always so nice to me.  She would call me sweetie. Dad used to give me some pennies and I could pick out what I wanted and pay Mrs. Dillion all by myself.

Bart's was a special place for me with good memories. It was for my Dad too. When he was very ill and in the nursing home he couldn’t eat solid food any longer. I asked him if he would like me to bring him something special. He asked for a Bart’s coffee milkshake. 

The red chair

Grandad is his red chair in his den. Early 1970's. 

When my grandmother, Buba, died just a few months before I was married in 1988, my mother let us know that my Aunt and cousins were working on getting her house on Lewis Road in Swampscott, Massachusetts ready to be sold and that if we wanted anything we could go up and take a look. Fred and I would be getting our own house after we got married and I thought there might be some furniture, especially, that we might want to consider.

Among other things we chose was my grandfather's red leather chair from his den and a matching ottoman. It was a favorite of mine and one of the few things that reminded me of a man I really didn't know very well.

I had just turned 8 years old the summer Grandad died. His was the first wake and funeral I ever attended. At the wake, my mother wanted nothing to do with being in the same room as the open casket that Buba had going on for him, so she stood with me outside in the hallway and greeted people as they came in. I was relieved to not have to see a dead person. Score one for being the baby. At his funeral, I remember being mesmerized with the American flag presentation to my grandmother for his World War I service. She looked sad. They had been married 53 years at that point.

Harold Potter Willett about 1896
at the age of 2. Look at that outfit.

The photo above of him sitting in that red chair in his den is how I remember him. What's weird is that I also remember that glass he has next to him. My grandmother had a set of those and I remember drinking out of them.

I love looking at the photos of him growing up. My mother and aunt as well as Buba's diary provide some great stories of him.

He and his brother, John Howard, and sister, Mildred Jeanette, were raised in a very unloving family. Their mother, Fannie, was by all accounts said to have been selfish and cold.  An older brother was still-born in 1888. Harold's middle name was Potter which was his mother's maiden name.

John Howard, Jr. and Harold Willett abt 1902

The Willett family was well off. John Howard, Sr. was in the shoe selling business in Boston which was a lucrative business in the late 1890's. They had a servant. Her name was Carrie Steele, according to the 1910 census. Grandad told the story that she was a loving woman who taught him and John Howard to cook so that on her nights off they wouldn't go to bed hungry. Fannie insisted on going out to dinner on the nights Carrie was off. She had no regard whether the children ate or not.

Harold Potter Willett abt 1912

My own memories of Harold Potter Willett are fleeting and few. He had a brown mole on his cheek and on his forehead. He worked in insurance. He had a soft voice. He was tall and skinny. He always insisted when we drove in the car with him that we had to wear a seat belt. This was in the early 1970's when it wasn't the law and no one did it. I remember what a pain it was to have to do it because I was little and couldn't see out the car window as well. One time while in the car with him, a fire engine came up behind us and he pulled over to the side of the road to let them pass. I asked him why we had to do that and he told me so that the fireman could get to save the people faster. Another time, I remember walking into the kitchen and hearing him complaining about me to my grandmother that I didn't eat all my dinner. He was really mad about it, I remember. He thought I was wasteful and fussy. It hurt my feelings to hear him say that and I snuck out and cried in the upstairs bedroom. I was probably about 5 or 6.

He was actually a very nice man. I just didn't get a chance to get to know him We lived just far enough away in Connecticut that by the time I was born we only made trips up to Swampscott on special occassions. My mother adored him and was always closer to him than she was to her mother. My mother and Grandad were very similar. Neither were good students. Both liked to have fun (too much) growing up. Both were stoic and "suck it up and move forward" kind of people.

My grandfather's red chair
in our living room 2014

I remember Grandad being sick. He had breathing problems due to mustard gas exposure in World War I and it caused issues later in his life.  He had to be on an oxygen tank. They cleared out the dining room of their home in Swampscott and set up a hospital bed in there so he didn't have to go up and down the stairs. Buba took care of him. I recall a time I was sitting in the living room and she was helping him get dressed. He was very frail at that point and he was sitting on the edge of the bed in a hospital gown. She was putting socks on him.  Grandad insisted on getting dressed every day and sitting in a chair.

He died in July of 1973 at the age of 78 in his sleep. Buba was in the living room doing some needlepoint and when she went to check on him, he was gone.

She missed him for the rest of her life. She would mention him frequently and always note his passing by saying something like, "Harold's been gone 20 years this month."

The red chair sits in my living room. Well loved by our cat, Stuart, who likes to nibble on it, unfortunately. But plans are to repair it. In the mean time, it is lovingly watched over by a photo of his wife.

Family Tree of cats

If you know the  Horners  you know that we love us some cats.  I don't, in fact, remember my life without a cat. 

I converted my husband, Fred, to love cats too...although he won't really admit it readily. Our girls all love cats in varying degrees. It's safe to say--we are cat people. 

I have had the best experience with all of my cats, and have never been without one in my entire 50 years of life. 

First there was Bootsy. She and I grew up together.  

The first cat in my family tree. Bootsy Horner.

When she was put down when I was 13 years old I cried for months afterwards. She was my most best friend.  

I had a difficult time when we moved from Windsor to South Windsor. I was bullied pretty badly. You'll read more about that in a later blog post. Bootsy would greet me at the end of each day by kissing me through the bars of the railing of the upstairs staircase. She seemed to sense I needed a friend. She never left my side. A beautiful angora Persian black and brown beauty. I still think of her. 

We're not sure what happened to her that caused her injury. What I remember is that one day she came in from being outside and she couldn't walk. She dragged herself into our downstairs bathroom and wedged herself between the wall and the toilet. We wondered if maybe she had been hit by a car. My mother was going to be bringing her to the vet later that day. I snuggled up to Bootsy before school that morning. I remember she was grooming herself. She wouldn't let anyone touch her but me. I pushed my face into her fur as she gave herself a bath. I told her I loved her. She licked me on the top of my head. 

My Dad petting Bootsy

My mother had her put down that day while I was at school. The vet recommended it because of her age. He said they could explore what was going on but the cost and recovery would probably be too much. I didn't understand. But I know my mother loved her too and wouldn't have put her down easily. All I knew was that I was inconsolable.

Bootsy was brought into the Horner family a year before I was born. She was my big "sister. " I'm told it was love at first site for both of us. My mother, who, went back to work when I was very little, liked to tell the story of how Bootsy liked to protect me from strangers.

One of the earliest jobs I remember my mother having was at The Windsor Towne House. As of 2013 it still stands in Windsor. Back then it was a place for business men who were working for long term assignments at various Hartford area businesses. I think a lot of engineers like my Dad. My mother liked to entertain. My parents were separated or divorced at this time. I don't remember which. I remember my mother would invite men and women who didn't have a place to go for Christmas to our home for Christmas dinner. My mom just didn't want people to be alone for Christmas.  I'd like to think I inherited that feeling. I open my home to all on Christmas Eve and have had many "orphans" on this night. And I love it.

But back to cats.  On those nights that mom had parties and strangers were over, Bootsy would sit at the top of the stairs and glare down at everyone . She frequently planted herself right in front of my bedroom door if strangers were over and I was asleep. Mom liked to say she was protecting me.

I don't remember how we got Munchkin. My mother called her Nadia. Everyone was enthralled

The only good photo I have of Munchkin.
She looked a lot like Boo-Boo Kitty.

with the gymnast Nadia Comaneci, who just scored a perfect 10 in the Olympics. The name didn't stick. Everyone else called her Munch. I remember she was a sweet thing.  She was a gray and white tabby. I never grew as close to her as I had Bootsy. But I loved her. She lived with my mother right thru the time she moved to Westfield, Massachusetts and I was in college. I don't remember how she died. For some reason I think it was diabetes. I know I was grown and my mother was close to her and they were great companions.

One of the stipulations I had when I married Fred was that I needed to have a cat right away. He was fine with it but he wasn't really a pet kind of person. He had all kinds of random pets growing up but they never stayed around for one reason or another so he never really formed that magical bond between a pet and their owner. He would soon know that incredible love!

A few weeks before we got married, my sister in law, Carol Horner, took in a stray cat. The cat, it was soon discovered, was pregnant. Fred and I had plans to move into our new house about a month after we got married, so I thought it was fate that there would be some kittens available that I could choose from to make our new house truly a home!

The kittens were born a week or so before the wedding and Fred and I went to take a look and choose one. Fred’s only condition was that we had to have a male cat. He felt female cats were moody and unfriendly (not true, of course). I didn’t care what sex we got…I just knew I needed a kitty. We chose a name in advance. Boo-Boo. Fred won’t like this story getting written down for all generations to see, but Boo was an affectionate name that I had for him early in our relationship.  

It was adorable, trust me.

Anyhow, we choose a black and brown newborn male and named him Boo-Boo. The plan was he would stay with his Mama until he was old enough to leave her which would be about the time we were moving into our new home. Carol was happy to take care of him until we were ready for him.

The wedding came, and then our 2 week honeymoon. First a week in San Diego, California and from there a cruise to Mexico. When we returned, Carol had left a message for me to call her. I was crushed to hear that little Boo Boo had died. Another one of the kittens had died as well and Carol’s theory was that because the mom was a stray, she was not healthy herself and her babies were sickly.

Our sweet Boo-Boo Kitty (1988-2008)

Carol felt so terrible that “our” kitten had died, that before we got back from our honeymoon and had found out, she went up to a farm she knew of in Stafford Springs, Connecticut that had kittens for adoption and chose one for us. He was waiting for us at her house. 

There we met the love of our family’s life. Boo-Boo Joseph Hawran.

He was a gray tabby with white paws and a white tummy. And the most precious baby boy you have ever seen in your life. Carol chose him from the other kittens because he had such a sweet nature. We had 20 wonderful years with Boo Boo. The day we had to put him down due to cancer in his jaw was the day our hearts broke in pieces. Fred cried as hard as I did that day.

We used to joke that we had Boo Boo longer than we had our daughters. He was, in all senses of the word, spoiled rotten. He was our baby before we had babies.

Boo-Boo was incredibly smart. People smart. When he wanted to go outside, he would ring this silver bell we had hanging on our front door handle. He taught himself to do that. It was simply left there one Christmas. All of a sudden he started ringing it. People were astonished he taught himself. But we weren’t. That was Boo-Boo.

When we first moved to Hope Circle, Fred and I used to take walks after dinner. We would start up Hope Circle to Rood Avenue and I would glance back and there was Boo-Boo—trotting after us. Wanting to walk with us. Almost to the end of Hope Circle. It took us some convincing and explaining to get him to go back home. We were worried about him wandering too far away from home if he walked with us.

Many years later he could tell time. Seriously.

I worked at home doing web design. The girls were all in Oliver Ellsworth School. I would easily loose track of time while I working. But not Boo-Boo. He knew the girls would be coming home soon, and he would come into my office and meow to go out around 2:45pm. Loudly. The bell was gone at that point. And he would pace around. And bother me. Until I let him out. It took me a while to figure it out. I would glance out my office window. Every day he would trot out to the front lawn and sit and wait. Several minutes later the bus would roll up to the front of our house. Boo-Boo would stand up. The girls would get off the bus. Boo-Boo would run over to the them to greet them (and be greeted by them).

They loved it. Other kids would comment on it, “Is that your cat waiting for you?”

There were a few times over those years they were all talking with each other and would run past him accidentally on the way into the house. He would look stunned when that happened. They would always realize it and run back to love him.

Boo-Boo's usual cuteness

He loved to be outside while they were playing. Or if Fred was working in the yard. He would sit under a bush in the shade and just watch. He’d come over once in a while 
to make sure you knew he was there and get some love.

Boo-Boo always came in at bedtime. You would just call him and he would come in. No worries. Once when he was younger he was gone for a few days. I scolded him about it and it never happened again.

He was a dream because he never used a litter box. We trained him to go outside. Even in the winter.

He got the “good” seat on the couch. Boo-Boo had his favorite seat and if you were in it, he would circle around from the family room to the kitchen, back to the family room to see if you moved yet. He was polite about it. Boo-Boo was always polite, we used to joke. But by the third time he circled around and stood there looking at you—you felt guilty. And you moved somewhere else. To another seat, to the floor—wherever. And Boo-Boo would happily jump up to his seat, take a bath and go to sleep.

We have had other cats since. All just as loved and adored and worshipped. 

We don't have a lot of photos of Bow. Here he is. Can you see

the notch out of his ear on the left? (1998-2009)

Bow. He was a black and white little boy I got from my friend Denise. Michelle and he 
loved each other. He would let her hold him like a baby and she would rub his big rabbit feet. Bow Francis was his legal name. He had a wild spirit and went out for long stretches of time. But he was a sweet boy. One time he came back with the tip of his ear chewed off. He went outside one night and never came back. We think he met an untimely demise due to another animal. After Bow I never let our cats out again. I just couldn’t face losing another one.

BJ. He was a sweet tiger cat. BJ Lawrence. Our girls gave all of our cats a middle name, if you haven't noticed. He was from the CT Humane Society. But he was a nervous sort. Not at the very beginning, but definitely as he got older. It ended up he had heart problems. He used to sit on the kitchen stool all the time. He was afraid of Buddy, our next cat. Sadly, he died on our bathroom rug after a blood clot made his legs useless and his heart gave out.  He meowed during the night and I layed down with him and stroked his back as he passed away. Fred had to take him to the animal hospital for cremation. I was too sad.

Buddy Arthur Hawran, about 3 months after we took 

him home from the vet. BJ wasn't hiding on the kitchen chair yet. 

Buddy (2009-present)

Buddy came next. Buddy Arthur Hawran. We had just put Boo-Boo down a few months prior. I walked into my vet with BJ for an exam and he said in his Indian accent, “Ohhhh…you need a new kitty. This one is perfect for you. He needs a home.” I said absolutely not. My heart was still too broken over the loss of our Boo-Boo. Sara was with me. No, no, no, I said. Just take a look, he said. Well, of course, that’s all it took. Buddy snuggled right into the crook of my neck. He was a kitten that Hartford animal control found on the streets of Hartford during sub zero weather. He had an upper respiratory infection and was not ready to go home quite yet. He gave kisses to Sara. Snuggled and purred with me. I had to have him. Of course. Darn cat love. 

Stuart Ward Hawran. Thanksgiving 2014. Deciding he
wants to help set the table with me. 

Then came Stuart. We decided after BJ died that Buddy needed a playmate. So  Katie, Michelle and my niece Lisa all headed to the CT Humane Society. There we met this adorable Ginger named Stuart. So, breaking with the “B” theme of our cats, we kept his name and brought this hilarious guy into our family. His middle name? Ward. After some kid that Michelle went to school with. A kid she didn't even like much, apparently. But it suited him, anyhow.  I honestly think that next to Boo-Boo, he is the smartest cat I have ever known. He has incredible patience and a long memory. If he wants to get into something…he’s gonna figure it out. His specialty is chewing plastic bags. And headphone cords. Yeah, he's weird. But we sure love him. 

Life is sweet with cats. They are each so individual, and I know they are spoiled, loved and cherished beyond belief. Cats rule!

Wait...your parents aren't married?

Mom and Dad 1950, the
summer before they were married. 

I don’t know that I really ever remember my parents being married. But, then again, I didn’t really understand they were divorced either. Or what divorce meant.

No one will fess up about this, but I have always thought that I was either

            a) an “accident”

            or

            b) a last ditch effort to save their marriage

Either way, don’t feel badly about it when you read that because, honestly, I was a very loved child by my parents, siblings, grandparents, etc. and regardless of why I was born really made no difference once I was here because I was quite the spoiled thing, I must admit.

Mom and Dad on their wedding day
October 21, 1950

I don’t remember a time my Dad wasn’t at the house. I think one of the earliest memories I do have is of him sleeping downstairs in the family room. Maybe I was about 4 or 5. I should ask my sisters about that, who are much older and were aware of what was going on.

But what I remember is that Dad came home from work every day and had dinner with us. Dinner was always 6pm every night. Sharp. Then he would sit in his chair with the Hartford Times newspaper and do the crossword puzzle. Sometimes he would come downstairs to the family room to watch tv. Sometimes he would come upstairs and watch tv with my mother and I in her bedroom. He would sit at the end of the bed in a metal folding chair. And watch TV. Sometimes he would rub Mom’s feet.  Then, at 9pm, he would go home to his own place in East Granby.

I know, weird, huh?  

There was no animosity between them for the most part. I give a lot of credit to my mother for making this divorce not seem like a divorce.  She is the one who wanted the divorce. She had not been happy for many years.  She knew my father was kind of helpless when it came to things like making himself dinner. She knew that he was kind of a loner who had a lot of acquaintances, but no close friends.  We kids were his world, Diana Lane was his world, and my mother was his world. She was as gentle about it all as she could be and let him come and go as he pleased. 

My favorite photo of my Dad and I in 1968

I remember realizing it was weird when I had a friend sleeping over one Friday night. We were playing in the living room and Dad came over and rumpled my hair and said goodnight and he walked out the door.  My friend, Jayme asked, “where is your Daddy going?” I said without missing a beat, “To his house.”  She looked at me confused. I suddenly got it that not only was I the only kid I knew who had parents who were divorced, but that we were a different kind of divorced family where everyone got along.

Now it wasn’t always roses, mind you. When my mother entertained a gentleman at the house, she would have to tell my Dad not to come over that evening for dinner. I remember she would say to him that she was “having company.” I felt badly for Dad because you could see the hurt on his face. He never quite accepted they were divorced. As much as it helped us all to have Dad still a regular part of our routine, I think it also hampered him from moving on and accepting the divorce.

I remember them having a conversation at the dinner table after us kids had left the table. They didn’t realize I was still in ear shot. Dad said he wanted to move back in and he and my mom to live as husband and wife again. Mom was gentle about it, but she said “No, Bob, that is not going to happen.”  I didn’t necessarily want them back together…it really made no difference to me...but I felt badly that my Dad was still pining after her when she had clearly moved on.

Mom came up from Florida specifically to see Dad during his last weeks. I was glad she did. I think she was glad she did. And I know my Dad was glad she did. One of the most touching things I witnessed was her feeding him  in the nursing home. It shows that when you’ve shared a life time together, with 5 children, 9 grandchildren and 1 great-grandchild together, despite a divorce--there is a love there that never completely goes away.

Loving Luta

Luta Lee Helton Shrum

We interrupt this blog about the stories of my life, to bring you snippets of the stories of those who came before me. These are memories shared with me from family members. Its important to me that these are documented. 

My great-grandfather Mark, was not only to be one of the most respected doctors in Bloomington, Indiana and then Lynn, Massachusetts, but he was also known to absolutely adore his wife, Luta. My grandmother, mother and aunt, have always told this story about how Mark fell in love with Luta.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Mark decided he wanted to be a doctor and won a county scholarship away from his best friend, Fred, to be able to attend Indiana University.

Dr, Mark Shrum

The summer before college, Mark and  Fred were sitting on a fence outside a dance hall and a very pretty, stylish girl danced by and Mark said, "There is the girl I would like to marry." Soon after he arrived in Bloomington, he was in a store when the same girl went by and he was determined to meet her. That girl was Luta Lee Helton. She lived with her Aunt and was one of the most popular girls around college. He joined Delta Tau fraternity and soon he was taking Luta to the college affairs.

For some reason, he left to go to Montana, but before he left he told his roommate, Charles Hortloff, "Take care of Luta while I'm away." Charles did such a good job of that, it was not too long after that Luta and Charles were engaged. Charles was a wealthy boy, studying to be a doctor too. 

Dr and Mrs. Mark Shrum 1942

Finally, Mark received a letter from Luta telling him of all the news around town and at the end a P.S. "by the way, Charlie and I have broken up."

It was miles to the nearest RR station and it was snowing but Mark put barrell stoves on his feet and started walking to the train. When he arrived in Bloomington, Luta was at a dance with another boy. He went to the dance, got a dance with her and asked her to marry him that night. He said he would go to her aunts and make arrangements. When Luta returned from the dance, he had a minister there waiting. 

Mark and Luta Shrum about 1904

They left for Louisville, Kentucky on the night they were married, where Mark graduated from medical school. He went on to become an Osteopathic doctor

The minister said the marriage would never last, doing it in such a rush.

He started his practice in Ellestville, Indiana. Daughter Merah was born in 1895. My grandmother, Jeanette was born 2 years later in 1897.

Mark had offers to teach in Waco, Texas or Boston. He tossed a coin and it came out for Boston.

 Once he set up a permanent practice as an osteopathic physician in Lynn, Massachusetts, it was in a wing of their house, so that he could be near Luta all the time.

They were married for 52 years until Mark's death in 1945.