Originally Published October 17, 2016

It often is said that a picture is worth a thousand words. This photo is one that deserves a thousand written words (but I will be briefer). It is a photo that evokes three of the themes in the book—mentorship, friendship and lost worlds. Courtesy of Leo Berry, the picture was taken in 1955 outside our house, across the alley from St. Paul school in Anaconda. The photo was included in the book, but no commentary was included.

The most prominent person in the picture is Sister Joseph Marie, our first grade teacher and a pivotal figure in my life. In the book, I have described her enormous gift of stimulating an interest in the world of books to someone who entered the grade a new student from another town and a little behind the others. For whatever reason, she took me under her wing, for which I am forever indebted. That special interest even included, as I was reminded by my classmate Ron Haffey at our recent 50^th reunion, tying me to my desk a couple of times because I was inclined to continually get out of my seat and roam around.

Looking at this photo of 60 years ago, the message is driven home to me—the critical importance of teachers and mentors in our lives. I can name off the others so special to me: my eighth grade teacher, a high school Latin teacher and two professors in college. Interestingly enough three of the five were nuns. I don’t think we can over-emphasize the critical role these teachers and mentors play in our lives. I think most of mine are dead, but I do see Donald Costello of Notre Dame, now 85 whenever I am in the Midwest, and I reunited with my Latin teacher in Dayton, Ohio.

Leo Berry, dressed smartly in a shirt and tie, is on the far left. At that time, Leo and I seemed to be continually together on the St. Paul school playground. One memory I have is he and I riding our bikes around the schoolyard on Good Friday as we solemnly waited for the holy hour of 3 p.m., the time of Jesus’ death according to Christian traditions. Leo and I were in school together for the next 11 years then we went in separate directions after high school graduation—he to Gonzaga and me to Notre Dame, followed by his career as a lawyer in Helena and my peripatetic journey of practicing in New York, Chicago and Boston and then of business ventures in Boston. However, our friendship has endured throughout those years through class reunions, getting together in Helena on my too infrequent visits there and in recent years exchanges through the magic of emails. Supplying photos, making introductions and reading part of the manuscript, he was of invaluable help on the book.

I did not immediately recognize the boy second to the right, but then I concluded it had to be Butch Prigge. Living two blocks away, he was one of my best friends. Not only were we in the same class but our mothers had been classmates all through school and had remained close friends (as they are today at the age of 88). Butch moved to Butte the following summer, and the mere distance of 23 miles away slowly dissolved our friendship—a typical pattern when we are young. Friendships at that age need close proximity and nourishment to blossom.

The remaining two in the picture are me and my sister Mary Anne. At that time we were 7 and 5 years old. Today we are 68 and 66 and between us have 11 grandchildren.

That picture from a time that in some respects seemed not long ago in fact is a reminder that it did occur long ago and that much of our lives have elapsed in the interim—the good and the not so good. It documents poignantly another lost world. Thanks Leo for finding it.

Hittin' the Jumper: A 60-Year Affair with Basketball at www.hittinthejumper.com

Originally published October 7, 2016

The Club Moderne: An Elegy

Another Anaconda institution has been lost in those flames of a couple of nights ago. For many of us, it is another chipping away of a building block of our youth. As a child, I remember being fascinated as I drove by that building on East Park with my parents. There was something distinct about it. It looked so different from anything else in town. With its sleek Art Deco design and those curved “corners”, it seemed to belong to a world somewhere out there. Its name was a source of endless speculation. It was not a “bar.” It was a “club”—a place that you belonged to, where you socialized with fellow club members. We of course had other clubs in Anaconda (Elks, Knights of Columbus), but you had to join them, fill out an application. As I later learned when I became old enough, at the funny building at the corner of Park and Ash you merely needed to show up to become a club member. Then there was that “moderne”—suggesting the exotic, the French, the modern.

Being too young, what I did not realize is that the Club Moderne was the center of the social and political exchange in Anaconda, something akin to the agora in ancient Greece or the Roman forum. Through here passed the campaigning politicians, the discourse on the latest local and national political issues and of course the prognosis for the high school football and basketball teams. In virtual reality, coaches were continually hired, fired and re-hired by those sitting around the bar. My long-time friend and former teammate, Bob Matosich, summed it up best a few years ago. Working part-time there in his early teaching days, Bob told me he learned more about life and people in those off-hours behind the bar than he ever did in all the years of schooling.

And the Moderne could offer us a diverse choice of accommodations. We could remain in the intimate confines of the “bar” in the front or we could move to one of the tables in the more expansive “hall” in the back—two very different experiences.

What I remember most though about the Club were the class reunions. It hosted nearly all the Friday night kicked-offs of the weekend celebrations. As we walked into that backroom from the side door on Ash Street and looked at all those familiar faces from the past, we were transported back to a world we had lost, but not forgotten—Anaconda Central 1966. Yet we did not need to stay the entire evening in the reunion hall. We could return to the present--through the doors to the bar in the front to have a glass or two with those crowded in on that hot July or August evening. Like a time machine, travelling from past to present and then back.

As we drove down Park Street in our younger days, we would meet on the right at Main Street the magnificent Montana Hotel, Marcus Daly’s opulent gift to Anaconda and a reminder of its more glamorous days; a few blocks down on the left was St. Paul Church, the oldest Catholic church (and most likely simply the oldest church) in town; a few more blocks on the right was the Club Moderne and in the horizon was the big stack, which presided over Anaconda’s contribution to America’s industrial might—the smelter, the “Hill.” The Club now has passed over to the realm of the lost world to join these other icons of Anaconda and of our past.