Thank you, Father Ted
by Ron Zier '52
Wyckoff, New Jersey
Fifty eight years ago, Father Ted Hesburgh changed my life.
I arrived at Notre Dameat 8 a.m. on Sunday, September 12, 1948,
making the14-hour trip from Manhattan on the New York Central's
Pacemaker. I was accompanied by two suitcases and a sense of adventure.
Unfortunately, reflecting my status as a late acceptance, I quickly
learned that there was no dormitory space available.
Instead, I was assigned to South Bend's Hotel Oliver, along with
five other similarly disenfranchised souls. The six of us shared
a room with a single bath -- the epitome of gracious living. It
was particularly harrowing at 7 a.m. as our group rushed to make
the bus that would get us to campus for our 8 o'clock classes.
At 17 years old, I did not acclimate well to this scenario. My
high-school study habits had not been stringent. And, suffice
it to say, I lacked the discipline to find a quiet spot to study
between classes. A perfect formula for failure.
My hotel stay lasted for several weeks before I gained a room
in Farley Hall, just a few doors removed from the rector, 31-year-old
Theodore Martin Hesburgh, CSC.
The residents of Farley Hall provided him with an interesting
challenge. First of all, there were 17- and 18-year-olds, away
from home for the first time, and trying to cope with college
life. There was also a strong contingent of military veterans,
fresh from post-World War II service in Europe and Japan. Understandably,
they weren't thrilled by 10 o'clock bed checks and electricity-off-at-11
regulations. Father Ted's even-hand made it work.
That was particularly true, following an Italian Club soiree
in Roseland. With many of his charges relegated to the bathrooms,
reflecting their harsh introduction to Chianti, he ordered the
place cleaned up and called a hall-wide meeting for the next morning.
There were no draconian punishments. I do recall some recrimination,
but it was mostly reconciliation.
At any rate, when midterm marks were published, I had a 75 average;
77 was the numerical hurdle for staying in school. And I was flunking
chemistry.
Somehow Father Ted found out about the problem. He had a solution.
I was to report to his room every evening after dinner and detail
my assignments. I would then return to his room at 11 and discuss
the substance of the stuff.
That regimen lasted for a few weeks. Once he was sure I could
create my own study schedule, I was released. The system worked.
I raised my average, passed chemistry and graduated with my class.
I had an opportunity to remind him of that story a few years
ago. He was kind enough to say he remembered.
It doesn't matter. I do.
Thank you, Father Ted.
Farewell, Boston College
by Dennis Sullivan '59
Flagler Beach, Florida
Every year on All Saints' day I have a vivid memory that dates
back 50-plus years to that day in 1955. I was a freshman from
western Massachusetts, and prior to that time had never been further
west than Albany, New York. But then again those were the days
when many parents had neither the time nor money to parade their
kids to a myriad of colleges so each could make an "informed choice."
For me I remember boarding a train (the New England States) in
Pittsfield and beginning the long, lonely journey to South Bend.
I remember my shock as I awakened on the train to observe the
Midwest landscape to be devoid of hills, never mind mountains.
What a strange place, I thought. The earth must really be flat
after all. Up to this point I had never met any official from
Notre Dame. All communication had been handled by mail.
As a product of a liberal arts Jesuit prep school, I soon found
my selection of aeronautical engineering to be a huge challenge.
(The Holy Cross fathers tried to no avail to get me to switch
to liberal arts, but I was determined to become an engineer because
I knew I could get a job with a higher starting salary.) It wasn't
long before I was stunned and shocked as I looked at a number
I didn't even know existed. The grade on my first calculus test
was a 46, and I was ready to pack it in and head for the Berkshire
Hills and home. (A few years ago my wonderful friend and classmate,
Ray Van Overschelde, now deceased, suggested that the 46 might
actually have been one of the higher grades.)
Meanwhile I had been receiving letters from my former high school
classmates now enrolled at Boston College, Holy Cross, Fordham
and Georgetown (all Jesuit schools), regaling the wonderful times
they were having and how easy liberal arts and business courses
were. And, they hardly had to study at all, while I was studying
around the clock and on weekends, only to manage a 46. To make
matters worse I had given up a baseball scholarship to BC, mainly
to avoid the over-loving attention I would receive from my father's
eight brothers and sisters who lived in Boston. As the first-born
in my generation, I would have received more help and guidance
than I could possibly ever stand.
As I struggled mightily, I did what many other freshmen were
wont to do. I started dropping little hints of homesickness and
other excuses in my weekly letters to my parents, hoping to get
permission to leave South Bend at Christmas and get into BC so
I could play ball in the spring and get out of engineering. Also
I would be saving them a lot of money.
I got up early the morning of All Saints' day to attend Mass
at Notre Dame's Sacred Heart Church, which would still give me
time to study before my first class. I sat in the last pew on
the side and was praying for a miracle to lift this unfair cross,
while wallowing in self-pity. Soon a priest tapped me on the shoulder
from behind and asked, "Son, were you ever an altar boy?" "Yes
Father," I replied." "Would you serve for me today?" he asked.
"Yes Father, I would be happy to." Actually I thought requesting
a miracle from the main altar in the churchl had a much better
chance of being heard and granted. I also thought this would make
great reading for my mother in my next letter and favorably dispose
her to let me go to Boston College. What self-respecting Catholic
mother would refuse her son when it came from the main altar at
the Sacred Heart?
As I trailed behind the priest it was becoming abundantly clear
that I was not going to be on the main altar. Well, so much for
the "almost-great story for the folks."
I wasn't paying a lot of attention to my surroundings as I followed
the priest through a tunnel of what seemed like endless catacombs.
The priest wasn't very conversant either, so I followed like a
little puppy dog until we came to a small altar, or private chapel,
where he changed into his vestments and had me select an appropriate
garment for myself.
The Mass didn't take long. At least there wasn't any sermon.
It was just the two of us, and it did give me time to pray really
hard for that miracle in calculus, or for a way to speed my transition
to BC. After Mass the priest invited me to have breakfast with
him. As an 18-year-old kid, and with studying to do, I was not
at all thrilled at the prospect of having a one-on-one breakfast
with a priest. Then I remembered I still hadn't got used to the
smell (or stench) of those rubbery scrambled eggs in the dining
hall. So I thought a decent breakfast might be enough reward for
being alone with a priest.
At breakfast Father tried hard to get a conversation going, so
I got the interminable host of questions. "How do you like Notre
Dame?' How's school going?" "Do you like your roommates?" He was
just trying to be friendly and helpful, but before long I was
into major league "dumping." The poor guy I thought later, to
pick me from 5,000 kids. I'll bet he was sorry he invited me to
breakfast; what a pitiful breakfast companion he got.
But Father prevailed. He switched from questioning me to counseling
me. He mentioned all the positive things that would result from
my sticking it out. Much later I could see that he was appealing
to my "Irish" pride of never quitting.
All the while this conversation was going on, I was unaware of
the time he was spending with me. But I was becoming aware of
the attention he was getting from the other priests in the room
and the staff. In my self-centered, pathetic state of mind, I
was becoming more cognizant of my surroundings, and the priest
was getting through to me. He helped me muster up the resolve
to get through this crisis and not be a quitter. I left breakfast
determined to give it one last try.
In a way the miracle I prayed for was happening, but I didn't
realize just how big a miracle God sent to me. The miracle, as
I discovered years later, was that God sent me Father Ted that
day. He didn't send me to Boston College.
So, on each All Saints' day I reflect on that event in my life.
It was not fate, nor coincidence. It was a real-life answer to
my prayers, and I remain so grateful to God and Father Ted for
that encounter.
I made it through engineering school in the requisite four years
with many struggles along the way. I also learned a life lesson:
Perseverance is a virtue and quitting is a sign of weakness..
More important, I learned firsthand what faith can do. That day
clearly was the first day in the rest of my life. I didn't know
it then, and it wasn't the miracle I prayed for, but it was the
miracle God sent me, because it was the one that would have the
most significant impact on my life.
In my four years at Notre Dame this would be the only time I
ever met Father Ted. If this encounter wasn't a miracle, then
I guess I don't know what a miracle is.
Thank you Father Ted for being there when I needed you the most.
More My Story
(May 2006)
