On Death and Jean Cadle

Jack Deatherage

(1/2025) In September 1962, Reverend Louis Storms was appointed the new pastor of Saint Joseph's Catholic Church in this place. As best as I can recall Storms replaced Father John Sullivan who was the pastor when we moved to Ohio in 1959. I remember Mom getting a letter from some Emmitsburg family member informing her that Father Sullivan had died. She called me into the house, away from the friends I'd been playing with, and gave me the news. I would have been 7 or 8 years old.

Mom told me years later she thought I didn't understand what death was because I took the news of a person I liked without a show of emotion. At the time I was a budding Roman Catholic- believing everything Mom and the Sisters at Holy Spirit Elementary School were attempting to instill in me. I fully understood Father John was going into the ground and I'd never get to talk to him again this side of the veil. He'd gone on to be with God, why would I be upset over that? Wasn't that the goal?

Over the following decades my parents, grandparents, assorted aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, acquaintances and enemies crossed the veil. Some people I cared deeply about. Others not so much, though their passings were noted, stories shared and I moved on. How I felt about each death had a lot to do with where my head was at any given time. Dad's death hit me the hardest.

I'd lost faith in the Christian god. The only thing I believed in was having another beer. I was wallowing in self-inflicted depression. Suicide was on the table. Then word came from Florida- Dad had died of a heart attack at age 56. For two weeks I maintained a stoic attitude, suppressing all emotion. When the grief finally descended on me it was horrifying. Wave upon wave of despair, self-reproach, regret, guilt, anger and the stunning revelation that I too, was mortal. (Seriously. I was and am that stupid - thinking, while contemplating suicide, I wouldn't die. Sheesh! What a maroon!)

Evidently I sobbed out as much grief as I'm capable of because no other death since Dad's has affected me that strongly. Or perhaps my having found something to replace the Christian god and alcohol makes the loss of family and friends easier to deal with? Whatever has changed in my thinking I am grateful for it. Now I might shed a few tears, but that tends to also cause the sinuses to clog and I deal with that too often without contemplating death. Better to quickly move on to memories- hopefully fond and entertaining, or at least educational.

Bill Steo, the philosopher down the hill, my editor at The Dispatch (under Ray Buckheister's ownership) attempted to educate my ignorant self with the same results high school English teachers Ruth Richards and Nancy Wenschoff achieved- they gave up on teaching me grammar, punctuation, spelling, coherent writing and let me ramble. Both passed me with Ds, barely. Bill continued trying to educate me after I stopped sending him a monthly column. He took to discussing philosophy with me and critiquing the occasional mead I was making in those days.

The greatest influence Bill had on me came in the form of a question- as philosophers will.

"Jack, how are you fifty-five years old and haven't decided what you want to do with your life? What's wrong with you?"

I deadpanned, "Would you like to see the list?"

In spite of my flippant comeback, I took his first question to heart. More'n a decade later I decided to get serious about creating a community garden. Though Bill's since met his maker he's often in my thoughts as I struggle to build the community garden. Which brings me to the December town meeting of the Board of Commissioners.

Having recently stood at the podium and asked the Board for more garden space, I was comfortably back in the peanut gallery at the last Town Council meeting contemplating the idiotic insanity that drives me, when Mike Hillman, the editor of this paper, sits down next to me and says, "Jean Cadle died today. I'm going to give her the front page of the paper next month. Can you write something about her? You and I are the last of the active writers of the ordinal Dispatch that from Bo and Jean created." Or something along that line. I wasn't switching gears as quickly as I should have been.

Most of my Cadle stories involve Bo. He was the one I hand delivered my monthly column to. We'd spend a few minutes, or an hour, discussing town events, local people, or gardening. Bo was always surprised that I was related to probably a fourth of the town's population, but couldn't have identified more than twenty of them if I passed them on the street. That I generally cared not what was happening in town further puzzled him.

Twice the Cadles invited me to social functions at their home along Middle Creek. I don't recall making too much of a fool of myself- I didn't break their tea set at any rate. Talk about a fish out of water! Which reminds me. I'd sooner have stood on the bridge crossing the creek above their home with a fishing rod in hand and a bucket of worms than having to stand stupidly among people with college degrees and an understanding of how to behave in polite society!

In spite of my social ineptness Jean did her best to make me feel welcome anytime I stopped by for a visit. I suppose her doing that eventually had me describing her to acquaintances as "a sweetheart". Bo, upon hearing one of my friends refer to Jean that way laughed and remarked, "Oh, she isn't as sweet as you think."

While Bo and Jean encouraged me to hone what little ability I had at storytelling, it was Jean who would call when I needed corrected. One correction still influences nearly every column I've written since.

I'd sent the editors a sarcastic critique of the then Board of Commissioners. I don't recall exactly what I wrote, but I do remember giving each commissioner praise for their intelligence and education, both beyond my reach. Then I insulted them by mentioning their IQs falling exponentially as the number of them gathering together increased. I was in a foul mood when I wrote the piece.

Some weeks after the newspaper came out I happened to mention the critique to Jean who had called me concerning something else. I told her I had been surprised they'd printed my letter to the editor. The Cadles were known for publishing a thoughtful, less than "hostile" newspaper.

I could hear the smile on Jean's face as she said, "Well Jack, I argued we publish your letter to teach you a lesson."

Lesson learned Jean. Rest in peace.