Author: Sharron Burnett

I begged, borrowed, and paid for rides to the University of Houston. I possessed neither a driver’s license nor a car to get to my classes. Luckily I had a number of friends living near me who were also studying there. Tuition for my first year was covered by a scholarship, so I often used the money I had saved from working for our family doctor to help pay for gasoline for those kind enough to cart me back and forth. My days on campus were often quite long but I was enjoying the opportunities to meet new people and see more of the bigger world around me. 

My first challenge came in registering for classes. In 1966, there were no online applications for doing so. Instead I went to one of the university gyms at the appointed time and raced from one area to another hoping that an opening might still be available for the classes that I wanted to take. It was a tedious and frustrating situation, but I found myself feeling more for the young men whose status for the military draft hinged on whether or not they were able to get a full load of classes. Now and again I would see tough looking guys on the verge of sobbing as they realized that their efforts were going to fall short because the classes they needed were closed. 

I ended up with a potpourri of courses that included English, mathematics, science, history, physical education, and German. Fortunately I received credit for freshman level English courses but unfortunately I was placed in second year German with no credit for the first year. I found myself with a small group of students all of whom had German last names who admitted that they spoke German at home with their parents. I felt like a fish out of water floundering on a hot beach as I attempted to keep up with peers who were incredibly fluent in the language. The rest of my classes were much like those I had taken in high school with the exception of physical education where my klutzy tendencies were on full view. 

I loved the pulse and the possibilities of a large public university that was so unlike my small private school. Everything about it was quite exciting. While Claudia and I had planned to be pals at the campus we soon learned that with different majors and classes our meetings were somewhat rare. We had to make appointments with each other just to stay in contact. In a sense we were now orbiting in two very different worlds but we did join a couple of organizations together and often took part in the numerous protests that cropped up on campus. This was a time of unrest in the country with civil rights still lagging for much of our population and distress over the war in Vietnam at an all time high. 

There were campus issues as well that became topics of the school newspaper, The Daily Cougar. I became a follower of the editor, Edith Bell, and found myself more and more often wanting to learn and write for her. She was doing a job that sounded more appealing to me than anything else I might imagine. She covered the problems in the School of Architecture in which the female students were being harassed by both students and professors who thought them unfit for the major. I was enchanted by her willingness to express her ideas without filters. I wondered if I would ever have the courage to speak my own mind. 

My cousin, Ingrid, was already in her second year at the university as was another cousin, Paul. I encountered them now and again as I rushed across campus to get from one class to another. I also met my cousin Alan’s fiancee, Susan. For a time Claudia and I went to every street dance and party we could find, but eventually she became quite busy with dates and other obligations, so Ingrid became my new buddy for extracurricular activities. Even though I have never seen a resemblance between the two of us, people thought that we were sisters wherever we went. It was an instant ice breaker and conversation starter that made our social forays more fun. Together we were meeting lots of new people and having a great time. 

In between attending my classes, studying for my courses, and attempting to enjoy the social aspects of the university I was spending less and less time at home. Michael had entered high school at Mt. Carmel with a scholarship just as I had. Pat was moving along behind him and becoming more and more independent himself. He was often away from home with friends, so the house was much quieter than it had been. Mama was the belle of the ball at her Parents Without Partners socials and she had met many new friends who often came to our house. She had begun to consider dating, but nobody seemed to meet the high standards that Daddy had set for her. 

Our family dynamic was changing. Mama was working and attending college classes in the afternoons at Dominican College. In the evenings we barely had time to speak to one another as we all sat doing homework at the dining table that our parents had purchased so many years before. Mama was burning her candle at both ends and the stress was beginning to show on her. Sometimes she seemed to overreact to situations and other times she appeared to have unfounded fears about her work or her classes at the college. She even admitted at one time that she was afraid of one of her professors, suggesting that he wanted to take her on a ride in his plane so that he might kill her by throwing her out. I was so full of my own world that I would usually just laugh when she said such things and accuse of her being overly dramatic. 

As 1966, ended our routines and the cozy feeling of safety that I had taken for granted seemed out of whack. I was still attempting to decide on a major with little success. I had struggled with both the German and history classes in a way that was foreign to me. Things were changing more quickly than I had imagined. The world itself seemed to be on fire. There was an feeling of unrest that sometimes kept me awake at night. I knew that the chaos was all part of entering the adult world which I definitely wanted to do, but I wondered if it would always feel so chaotic. I was learning as in the dark without any kind of plan. It was my welcome to the real world. I was preparing for a future that I could not yet see. Hopefully I would be ready for whatever came to be. 

My time in high school seemed to fly by quickly. Suddenly I was a senior looking forward to graduating and attending college. From the age of eight I had grown up on Belmark Street with Mama and my two brothers. Our mother had created a loving environment in which the three of us thrived. Our aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, neighbors and friends had embraced and supported us. We felt safe, secure and loved. Now the adult world was calling me and I was ready to follow. 

My senior year was a whirlwind of activity. I was the news editor of our school newspaper, an assignment that initially disappointed me because I was hoping to be in charge of the literary page which became the domain of my friend, Claudia. I also longed to be the general editor so that I might write the opinion pieces but for whatever reason our sponsor saw me as someone more capable of reporting the news. In retrospect I suspect that she got it right. 

I also became the president of the Medical Careers Club even though I secretly began to question my interest in medicine. The truth was that I was totally confused about what kind of career I wanted to follow. I had no interest in business or engineering and I actually had little idea of what kind of careers were possible. Women were only beginning to actively consider jobs that had once been the domain of men, and they were often faced with pushback. In my heart I wanted to be a journalist, but my writing was still tentative. I was afraid to let the real me shine forth in my words. I was as confused about the next steps in life as anyone ever has been, so I simply enjoyed my final year of high school with gusto. 

I had been a member of the Student Council for three years and decided to throw my hat in the ring for Student Body Secretary. I pushed myself to be less shy and to approach everyone during the campaign. I worked for days on the speech that I had to deliver to the entire school. I had been enjoying being a fearless member of the debate team but I soon realized that speaking in front a a few judges was much easier than looking out on an audience of hundreds of people. My voice wavered and my right leg became limp as I held onto the podium. I was making sounds, but wondering the entire time if I was going to pass out before the end of my speech. Somehow I made it through the ordeal but my foray into politics ended up being unsuccessful which turned out to be exactly as it should have been. I was not yet ready or confident enough for such a job.

I had worked so hard to do well in my studies that my habits for getting things accomplished had become routine. I approached learning the way my father had taught me. I saw it as something quite enjoyable rather than an onerous task. I had stayed at the top of the class each year in a secret honor to my father who had always believed in me and my abilities. Being the valedictorian of the class was a personal goal, not one predicated on receiving scholarships or achieving glory. It was my way of letting my father know that I had learned from him. 

Each Friday evening I attended the school football games. I had become the official announcer for the Carmel Cadets drill team. It was a fun gig that allowed me to watch the games with my friends and then be the voice behind the Cadet performance. It was also so frivolously fun that I felt the most like a normal American teenager on those nights. I’d hitch a ride with my friends Susan or Eileen or Nancy and we would have a rollicking time.

I have to admit that I was so busy as a senior that I hardly interacted with my family. I missed lots of Friday nights at Grandma Ulrich’s house and on Saturdays I was either at the weekly dances held at the school or out and about with my friends. While I was busying myself with becoming more and more independent my mother joined a club for single parents called Parents Without Partners. She attended the meetings and socials with a neighbor, Kathleen, whose husband had quite suddenly and unexpectedly died. The two of them had fun together getting out of the house and meeting new people. They were both beautiful and outgoing women who attracted attention wherever they went. 

My brothers were doing their own things as well. Michael had a stable of friends who were bright and had interests similar to his. He was in the eighth grade and his teachers had finally realized what an amazing student he was. His mathematical abilities were over the moon and he was already focusing on a future career in engineering. His buddies gathered regularly at our house charming us all with their earnest outlooks on life. 

Pat had friends all over the neighborhood. He was fun and likable and had a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. If ever there was a real life character like Tom Sawyer, it was Pat. He had an unstoppable wit and a creative bent that reminded me so much of our father. He even began to resemble Daddy more and more as he grew older. He was the perfect balance for the seriousness of Mike and me.

With the end of my school year came recruitment and offers of scholarships from college that I did not even know existed. Back in 1966, most high school students had little knowledge of the process of admissions. I only knew that Claudia and I wanted to attend the University of Houston and so I had only applied there. My acceptance was automatic as was hers. In the meantime I was inundated with letters from Georgetown University, Universtiy of Notre Dame, Catholic University of America, the University of St. Thomas, the University of Dallas and Texas Tech. Each of them promised me a free ride if I would attend. While I was flattered by the attention I understood that my situation was more complex than most. There was no way that my family would be able to afford to send me back and forth to far away schools even if I had every other expense paid once I got there. I was also still only seventeen and had rarely travelled anywhere save for our long journey to California and back and our visits to see our grandparents in Arkansas. Staying in town was the most reasonable option given my circumstances and I was impressed by what I had seen of the University of Houston. Furthermore had yet to decide on my major, so UH gave me the flexibility to try different areas of study before making a solid commitment. 

After the usual end of year traditions like a senior trip to a dude ranch, Junior/Senior night, the Awards Ceremony, the Senior play, it was graduation day. I was filled with mixed emotions and hardly heard the speakers on that day. On the one hand I was ready to venture into the next phase of life, on the other hand I felt as though I was jumping blindfolded off of a cliff. Everything was changing and I was unsure of how I felt. I suppose that in that regard I was like everyone else in my class. It was like saying a final farewell to my childhood. The rest of my life stood before me and I had no idea where that would lead.

It took me awhile to move on from the death of my Grandma Minnie Bell, but I was a junior in high school and had come into my own with academics, clubs and friendships. I was soon enjoying my youth once again even though I would never really forget the impact that my grandmother had on me. Life was full for our family as our mother continued teaching her fifth grade students, enjoying every moment of he job. Michael inched toward high school proving himself in both his studies and his athleticism. In fact, he and Mama had a bit of a dust up when he announced his intention to try out for the football team. It was one of the only moments in which the two of them became involved in a major disagreement. Mama was adamant the football was a dangerous sport and she would stand firm in denying Michael her permission. The battle ended with my brother sulking away and mumbling like the teen he had become that she had ruined his life.

Patrick was the family entertainer. He kept us laughing with his ability to tell a good story or act out a funny joke. I would later realize that he was the latest in a family line of men who had the knack of delivering a punchline. It had no doubt begun with Grandpa Little, continued with my father and had now become one of Pat’s many talents. He was the delight in our family and in the neighborhood where he collected friends wherever he went. He ran like a gazelle, fielded balls like a pro and just generally enjoyed life with a kind of gusto that made us all smile. 

During that school year Claudia Dean became my closest friend and confidante. Her mother was also a teacher and Our Lady of Mt, Carmel school and so the two of us often sat together at the end of the day waiting to ride home with our moms. We’d share our dreams which of course included discussions of the boys in our class that we hoped might notice us. Sometimes we got together on weekends and listened to music from the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. We both enjoyed writing and worked on the school newspaper, but Claudia had a keen interest in science that I admired but was never able to develop for myself. We had both quietly decided that upon graduation from high school we would attend the University of Houston.

I was still uncertain about my future but I had joined the Medical Careers Club in the hopes of finding a niche in that arena. By my junior year I was an officer in the organization and I found myself leaning toward nursing without really having any idea of what that entailed. I had spent the previous summer as a substitute in our family doctor’s clinic. I worked at the receptionist’s desk and filled in as different clerks went on vacation. Somehow in the back of my mind I began to see that the life of doctors and nurses were not appealing to me, but I reserved judgement because I had only seen the day to day routines of a clinic rather than the excitement of a hospital. 

The Beatles came to Houston during my junior year but there was no way that I would have been able to secure a ticket to see them. I soothed myself when I learned that nobody was able to hear them sing during the concert because there was so much screaming. I was content just to listen to my records and imagine what it might be like to be John Lennon’s girlfriend. 

Lyndon Johnson, a fellow Texan, was duly elected to the presidency during that time as well. I had only begun to think about politics of late and I somehow deemed myself a democrat, mostly because of my former adoration of John Kennedy. I was still forming my political opinions but my most focused issue was on the civil right movement. I suppose that I had always believed that the segregation of black citizens in my country was wrong. Even as a young child I instinctively knew that we had been wrong to deny our them the same rights that the rest of us enjoyed simply because we were born Caucasian. I was sickened by the horrific day on the William Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama when Bull Connor unleashed dogs and tear gas on peaceful demonstrators. I had always questioned the prejudices that I witnessed, so when the Voting Rights Act was passed in Congress and signed by Lyndon Johnson I celebrated, hoping that our nation would one day see everyone as equal. 

Sadly the war in Vietnam was escalating. Claudia and I often spoke of how our country might extricate itself from that conflict. We worried about young men that we knew being drafted to take part in the fighting. We both wished that we were old enough to participate in protests, but for the moment we would simply be content to develop our beliefs together in the earnest conversations that we so often held with each other. 

At school I found that I really enjoyed my Chemistry class. It was perhaps the only time that I was enthusiastic about sitting through a science class other than the moments when Mrs. Colby talked about space exploration. I also began German class in addition to continuing with Latin. Nevertheless English class with Father Shane continued to be my favorite part of the day. By then I had read and reported on hundreds of books and written as many weekly themes as well. I was able to parse  and diagram sentences with ease. I felt like a master of the English language which reminded me of a story that my mother often repeated. 

When she was attending Austin High School she had an English teacher named Harlan Andrews who was the older brother of the movie star Dana Andrews. She often boasted that Mr. Andrews was as handsome as his brother the actor and one of the great teachers of her lifetime. She was most proud of a compliment that Mr. Andrews often gave her. He had told her time and again that she had a remarkable mastery of the English language. I think that compliment was especially important to her because her mother spoke little or no English and her father had a distinct accent that gave away his foreign birth. For the entirety of her life she would stress the importance of proper diction and grammar usage. Perhaps I had inherited her delight in analyzing our beautiful English language.

I spent the summer of 1965 working for our family doctor once again. The accountant encouraged me to study business in college. The nurses thought I should attend a nursing school. The doctors attempted to convince me to plan for medical school. The world was swirling around us and I would soon be faced with adult decisions that I did not feel ready to make.   

It seemed so sudden when my grandparents decided to move from their beloved farm in Arkansas back to Houston, Texas. I knew how happy they had been with their animals and their gardens, but I also remembered how much work maintaining their place had been. The two of them were in their late eighties and beginning to slow down. Perhaps being back near family in a house with a smaller yard would be best for both of them. Besides, having them close would mean that I would get to see them more often. 

We almost immediately began visiting my grandparents every Sunday after church. Grandma prepared her famous feasts for lunch, but somehow her cooking was not as incredible as it had once been. She was having difficulty with her eyes and we would often find foreign objects in the dishes that she served. Our mother instructed us to begin with small portions so that if we decided that a particular dish was not up to Grandma’s standards it would be less noticeable if we left that food on the plate. It was sad to realize that our once energetic grandmother was slowing down and had lost much of her culinary magic. 

On most visits we accompanied Grandma on a tour of her backyard garden which did not seem to have suffered the way her cooking had. Her thumb was as green as ever so it was delightful to view the flowers and vegetables that grew in profusion in beds along the perimeter of the property. She was always so delighted by nature’s bounty that it made all of us smile. 

For a time Grandpa went back to work. He told us that he needed to stay busy, so he had landed a job at NASA through his connections with the union to which he had belonged for years. He helped install the rings for lighting on the ceilings of new buildings that were constantly cropping up at the space center. He looked and behaved much younger than his octogenarian age, but one day an inspector saw him perched high on a ladder and felt that something was amiss. When the man quizzed Grandpa about his age and learned how old he was, he immediately insisted that my grandfather leave the job. 

What we did not know at the time is that Grandma had colon cancer that had advanced so much that it was incurable. This was a time before Medicare for seniors existed so Grandpa had been drawing on his savings to care for her. He needed that job both for the income and the health insurance that it had provided. It was devastatingly horrible to later learn that my grandmother’s treatments were stressing the finances of my grandparents. 

It was not long before Grandma’s illness became apparent. She stopped cooking her big meals for us and when we visited we mostly sat on the couch watching television with our grandparents. Grandma told us that her favorite show was The Beverly Hillbillies. She’d laugh and explain that she identified with the “Granny” character on the series. 

Eventually Grandma spent time in the hospital where she underwent surgery that resulted in a colonoscopy. She was frail and mostly bed bound by then. We would sit with her as she slipped in and out of consciousness. The whole situation horrified me but I watched my mother behaving like an angel of mercy. Mama had so much strength and goodness in her heart that I was in awe of her. I mostly sat quietly in the room wishing that the grandmother I had always known might somehow become well again, but that was not meant to be. 

One day in October of 1964, my beloved grandmother, Minnie Bell Smith Little, died in her home. I was devastated as was anyone who knew her. Grandpa had tried so hard to restore her health, but in the end there was little he was able to do. His “buddy” was gone, the love of his life and he would talk of her constantly and the joys that the two of them had shared. 

After Grandma’s funeral Grandpa revealed that he would have to vacate the house where Grandma had ended her days. His bank account was depleted from the cost of her medical care. He liquidated all that he owned and moved to a room in his daughter Marion’s home. When that did not work out as planned he found a rented room with a sweet woman named Maryann Barbeaux, a widow who needed the extra income to stay afloat. His world was shattered and so was ours. Grandma had been the glue of the family and without her we all felt adrift. 

I would return to my books and my studying for solace, a pattern that I would repeat over and over again during my life. I don’t recall much about that school year because I suppose I was shrouded in grief without really understanding the process of working through the phases of loss. When I turned sixteen shortly after my grandmother’s death I felt inspired to emulate her goodness and the joy for living that she had so exuded. I also wanted to be like my mother who had shown me how to so lovingly care for the sick and the dying. I knew that I had a great deal of growing up to do before I would even come close to being like the two remarkable women who were my exemplars. Little did I know how close I would eventually become with my grandfather and how he would be a source of comfort and wisdom for many more years to come. The passing of time had made me strong, and Grandpa would show me how to navigate the difficult surprises that always come our way.  

I have a granddaughter who enrolled for a class that focused on the Cold War with a particular emphasis on the nineteen sixties and seventies. I have been fascinated to hear her views on that era because that was a time when, like her, I was coming of age. Perhaps the most defining moment in those years came on November 22, 1963, when I had only days before celebrated by fifteenth birthday with gifts from my mother that assured me that she finally believed that I was no longer a little girl. I was a sophomore in high school studying subjects like Biology and Geometry, teasing my hair and wearing pink lipstick. Life was feeling upbeat and exciting as I held a seat on the Student Council and joined the Medical Careers Club while writing for the school newspaper. Best of all I still had my all time favorite teacher, Father Shane, for English where I was thriving. 

On the day before November 22, Father Shane had arranged for our class to attend a symphony concert in downtown Houston. Classmates and I rode to the event in the car of one of our friends who had already turned sixteen and thereby had secured her driver’s license. As we were riding down Interstate 45 from the Hobby Airport area we were passed by an entourage of vehicles accompanying President John F. Kennedy who had come to Houston to raise campaign funds and meet with political supporters. It was an exciting moment for all of us who generally were huge fans of the president even though none of us were yet eligible to vote. Somehow seeing him whiz by us made the day even more exciting than it might otherwise have been. I told my friends about the time I had seen him ride in a open car no more than a few feet away from me as I stood with my mother and brothers under the freeway near Hobby Airport. He had looked over at us and waved with a big smile on his face. It was a golden moment for everyone.

I don’t recall much about the concert that we attended other than the fact that Father Shane had taught us how to watch the conductor as a cue for when to remain silent and when to applaud. We had felt quite sophisticated with our learned manners. We would also buzz about our brief encounter with President Kennedy even though we had only seen his car rushing past. The following day, on November 22, we suspected that Father Shane would briefly discuss the nuances of the music that we had heard before transitioning into a lesson. 

The class had barely begun when one of the nuns who worked at the school rushed through the door declaring that the president had been shot in Dallas. My first instinct was to laugh at her comment because she often popped in to tease us with silly jokes. Somehow, though, this bit of dark humor did not feel right so I held back my laughter following the cues from Father Shane and my fellow classmates. It took a few seconds before I read the expression on her face and realized that she was not attempting to be funny, I suppose I went into a state of shock at that point. I only recall sitting among my friends feeling all alone. It was almost an out of body experience much like I had endured when my father died. We simply sat at our desks without making a sound, without daring to even move. 

There was a later announcement that the President had died. In that moment I heard a few sobs and saw that some of my friends had put their heads down on their desks. I simply sat frozen and feeling as though somehow the world had ended once again. My emotions were rioting in my head as disbelief, sorrow, and even fear overtook my thoughts. Somehow time both stopped and rush forward at the same moment. Before long I was walking home to the comfort of my mother and my brothers. 

The next days were cold and dreary as though the weather itself changed to reflect the mood of the nation. For the first time in my memory my mother kept the television tuned to the hour by hour reports that seemed to only become more and more disturbing. I watched in horror as Jack Ruby shot and killed the accused assassin Lee Harvey Oswald. It was the first time I had witnessed a murder in real time. 

We mostly stayed home but on the day of John Kennedy’s funeral Mama decided that she wanted to be with her mother. We sat in Grandma Ulrich’s tiny living room warmed by a gas stove that glowed in the darkened room. I remember little John John Kennedy, Jr. saluting his father and Jackie Kennedy wearing a long black widow’s veil as she walked behind the horse drawn caisson carrying her husband. The sound of the drumbeat became permanently embossed in my memory. I only need to hear a few seconds of it and I am once again sobbing for our wounded president. 

Somehow our nation’s reaction to the death of a president, a war in Vietnam that seemed endless and a struggle for civil rights for all of our citizens would dominate the rest of the nineteen sixties and much of the first half of the nineteen seventies. I began to fully understand that I would be stepping into a world far more chaotic than the safe little hideaway of my home. Unimaginable changes lay ahead that would push me into adulthood far sooner than I had ever anticipated. My family and my school would prepare me well for what was to come.