Where I Began: Jefferson Barracks

Thinking back on my first years on Earth gives me reason for pause: my first three years of life were spent in a place steeped with history, violent history, at that: the ground beneath my bed and where I played was mixed with the blood of dead men; the air around me continued to reverberate from the drills used in preparation for war and with the cries of the hospitalized wounded; voices of those veterans who then returned and occupied the barrack apartments rang sharp, like the weapons they had used in infantry practice. The tension of war did not dissipate when the war ended, but hung over the barracks like radioactive dust. This is where I began my life.

Until I was three years old, I lived with my parents on a defunct military post in a barracks where for a hundred years soldiers slept, ate, and many times died. The grounds where the barracks are built are rich in history and its dirt is fertile with the blood and bodies of hundreds of soldiers. My mother and father brought me home from the hospital - Barnes Jewish Hospital which today ranks 11th in the nation - on June 16, 1946 and took me home to their tiny apartment at Jefferson Barracks, originally established as the first Infantry School of Practice in 1826 and named after the former president Thomas Jefferson who had died earlier that year.

The land the barracks was built on had been been part of the original Louisiana Purchase. In its early years, Jefferson Barracks was called upon to keep hostile Indians at bay but was also required to protect Native Americans from the settlers as well, its duty being to keep "the peace." By the time the Civil War erupted, 220 generals served duty at the barracks, including Grant, Sheridan, Lee, Bragg, Sherman, and Hancock. Although Missouri was a border state, support from the Germans living in St. Louis and loyal to the Union cause kept the city under Union control and the barrack's troops supported the Union effort throughout the war. By 1862 the post's hospital was expanded to accommodate over 2,500 soldiers; however, the numbers of wounded and sick grew so great that Mississippi River steamboats were outfitted to supply supplemental bed space, becoming floating hospitals. The boats also helped transport soldiers to and from battlefields. Often, there were more wounded and sick soldiers at the Barracks than any other hospital in the nation and many soldiers ended up buried on the grounds, among them being: Jefferson Davis, Robert E. Lee, and Ulysses S. Grant.

After the Civil War the Barracks were abandoned but in 1871 the St. Louis Arsenal was transferred there and the Barracks became the St. Louis Depot, which continued to play a pivotal role in military history. By 1891, the Barracks were renovated and many of the buildings were constructed in brick, ensuring the post's military role with the Army stationing the 38th and 49th Infantry Regiments there to become a primary post for the infantry. Then in 1912, the Barracks made history when Albert Berry completed the world's first parachute jump there. Throughout the two World Wars, Jefferson Barracks continued to play an important role as one of the largest Army Air Corps training centers as well as one of the largest recruitment centers in the U.S. Indeed, this is where my father, hardly 18 years old, enlisted to serve in the military during World War II.

Soon after the war in1946, some of the buildings were acquired by the St. Louis Housing Authority as temporary low-cost housing for soldiers who had recently returned home. The Barracks were demolished in the 1960s and currently townhomes called Jefferson Townhomes occupy the grounds of 331 acres complete with museums, a golf course, recreation center, and hiking trails. And yet, a military presence remains as the Barracks serves as the base for the Missouri Air National Guard and the Army National Guard. For those soldiers who died over the past 100 years, there is the Jefferson Barracks National Cemetery which is listed on the National Register of Historic Places and has approximately 237,000 internments. I'm not sure all those soldiers from the Civil War who died at the Barracks made it into this cemetery, but like some Hollywood movie, I don't think I'd feel comfortable living in a townhome with the possibility that a ghost of some soldier might manifest himself next to my bed in the middle of the night (think Poltergeist).

I have no recollection of the Barracks, my only knowledge of those first two years come from the stories my mother told me. Mom bathed me in the kitchen sink and I took naps on a blanket spread out on the small living room floor. For my first few months, my crib was a refashioned dresser drawer. Appliances were sparse, so Mom did the laundry in the same kitchen sink where I was bathed by pouring boiling water over the clothing and my diapers, wringing it all out by hand, and hanging it up on a line in the common area of the complex. The couple who lived in the apartment below Mom and Dad fought, especially in the middle of the night. My father, sleep deprived as he was in his endeavors to work full time, attend university classes to earn his engineering degree, and to study to pass those arduous classes, once flew into a rage because of the couple's screaming at 3:00 a.m. It was summer and it was hot. Of course, there was no air conditioning then, so everyone's windows were open and the shouting and cursing from the apartment below was loud and clear. Dad wasn't a mean or aggressive individual, but becoming a father at 21 years old and working and attending school around the clock wore his patience down to a short fuse. Desperate to sleep, he jumped out of bed wearing only his underwear (again, it was hot), stomped over to the open window and pulled down his drawers. Like something from Chaucer's The Miller's Tale, Dad stuck his bare butt out the window and let "fly a fart as loud as it had been a thunder clap." My mother hid under her pillow and laughed until she cried (and she usually cried and laughed at the same time). I am not sure whether or not the couple's fighting ceased or if my Dad got the sleep he needed that night, but Mom loved to tell the story, especially because the behavior was so atypical of my father. All men apparently have their limits.

Attending Washington University in St. Louis on the G.I. Bill, dad was determined to complete his engineering degree. To finance his education at a renowned university like Washington University would have been otherwise financially impossible for someone like my father. Because he studied hard and was highly intelligent, he managed the rigorous classes and earned enough money to support my mother and me by working at nights at a printing company running its presses. The physical labor required to run the huge, dirty presses caused him a serious case of hemorrhoids. My parents didn't have enough money to cover both medical care for her pregnancy and the surgery he needed, so he attended classes, studied, and ran presses while in pain and often bleeding from the rectum. The hemorrhoids were finally surgically removed after he graduated and he was hired by the Stix, Baer, and Fuller department store chain, a job that came with health insurance. Until then, coupled with attending classes and studying in whatever time that was left over, running the printing presses exhausted my father and he grew dangerously thin. In addition, my parents lived on so little money that food was sparse too and to provide for a new baby, they often scrimped on their dietary needs. They bought two pork chops a week and beans for their protein and ate a lot of pasta in between. Nor were they able to afford a car, so Dad rode the city busses and walked to wherever he needed to go. Eventually, finding that he needed to find a way to get from the university to work on time each night, transportation became an issue. To resolve the problem, he and mom sold their refrigerator and with that money bought a car. Apparently, refrigerators were luxury items and the apartments didn't come equipped with one, requiring tenants to furnish their own. Now with a car but without a refrigerator, to keep food cold they purchased an old "ice box" for a few dollars and had an iceman deliver a block of ice once a week.

Finally, Dad earned his degree. Somewhere, there is a picture of my mother and father on the day he graduated, she in her wide-brimmed straw hat and bright red lipstick and he in his hat and gown, holding two-year-old me. They both look so very young, and so very skinny, in that photo and almost sad, a bit like pale, exhausted, dressed-up scarecrows. But they had a plan and if not a plate filled with steak and potatoes, their hearts were filled with hope for the future.

Two of my grandparents died before I turned three. My mother's mother, Alta, died of lymphoma at around age 64. Sadly, I do not remember her, but my father told me he adored her. Despite growing up on a farm, having little formal education, giving birth to ten children, and being left widowed to raise them all at the height of the Great Depression, she found time to read, and she read voraciously. Dad loved to sit at the kitchen table, smoke cigarettes, drink coffee, and talk with her for hours on end. He told me that my Granny Alta was not only well-read, she was highly intelligent and insightful, and he loved sharing ideas with her - something he could never do with his own mother.

Once, when my Granny came to visit us at the Barracks, I was involved in some little game I had created for myself. My mother encouraged me to leave my play to sit on my Granny's lap and give her a kiss and hug. I adamantly refused and Mom became frustrated with my stubbornness, but my Granny told her to leave me alone. "That child has a mind of her own. Don't force her. Leave her alone and she will come to me on her own good time." And I did. Another clue that I had a mind of my own is my penchant for standing on a chair, waving my finger at the adults in the room, and delivering "speeches," which no one could understand because my linguistic skills were still undeveloped. Everyone thought my antics were funny, but not my Granny. She told my Mom: Karen knows what she is talking about even if no one else can understand her yet. One day, she will be heard by others. Mark my word, she'll be a politician, minister, or teacher. Thank God I didn't become a politician, but I did teach and that was difficult enough. But Granny was correct; I suppose I need my voice to be heard.

My paternal grandfather also died before I could develop a memory of him. Edward Oberlin was in his middle to late fifties when he was diagnosed with a brain tumor caused by exposure to mustard gas while serving in the military during World War I. My mother adored her father-in-law. He was a man of few words, a listener rather than a talker. When he did speak, he was soft-spoken and gentle in demeanor, known for his patience and strength of character. My mother loved him because he treated her with compassion, whereas her mother-in-law Gretchen served as the family critic, finding fault as often as possible. But whenever Grandpa stopped by to visit my parents, he always brought some special treat from the bakery for Mom. It was his way of letting her know that, in his eyes, she was was just fine. She always remembered him for that, his small expression of caring and of approval and she told me that his visits and treats from the bakery was one of those rare moments of joy for her in those early years of financial hardship. Grandpa Oberlin exemplified the old adage: a little bit of kindness can go a long way.

My son's likeness to his great-grandfather Oberlin is uncanny. Comparing photos of the two of them at the same age is like seeing the same person living in different eras - Great-grandpa in his WWI uniform in 1918 and my son at 25 years old in 1992 wearing swim trunks and toting a surf board. Whether we realize it or not, we carry our forbears with us in so many ways. Perhaps if we realized how much of their hard work, dreams, fears, and love we house in our DNA, we would not only revere and honor them more, but we would also take much better care of ourselves too, especially since we will pass much of the past as well as the stuff of our lives to future generations. Of course, that is unless you need to discount the bad apple types found in every family if searched back far enough - you know, like the occasional horse thief or ruthless tyrant. Or the Auntie whose husbands kept dying and leaving her their homes or insurance money.