by Amy
W. Cameron
I love to watch movies like Hoosiers, Remember the
Titans, and especially Rudy. The underdogs succeed
and leave few dry eyes in the audience. But my favorite story
is that of my father, Barry West, who graduated from Notre Dame
in May 1960. The story starts long before.
George Le West, a CPA, and Gertrude Barry West, a homemaker
with a fifth grade education, lived in Rochester, New York. After
nine years of marriage and after several miscarriages, Gertrude
gave birth, at age 39, to George Barry West on April 7, 1938.
Two months after Barry's 1st birthday, his father died of a hereditary
heart disease. Gertrude, now alone with a baby, left Rochester
to move near her Irish Catholic family in Syracuse. To provide
for her small family, she got a job at a department store. Gertrude
raised Barry with the help of her brother and sister-in-law, Barry's
Uncle Bill and Aunt Pat. Their children, Kevin and Kelly, were
like a brother and sister to Barry.
His hard-working single mother spoiled Barry. Not in the sense
of material possessions, though. He was brought up with strong
Catholic beliefs, attended Holy Rosary Catholic School. He was
well behaved, thanks to neighbors and relatives would make sure
Gertrude would know otherwise. By the third grade, the one thing
Barry truly desired was to attend the University of Notre Dame.
Barry's mother didn't have the extra money to send him to Notre
Dame, and his grades were not good enough to get a scholarship.
To make money for tuition, he worked several jobs -- in grocery
stores, city parks, the water department, the New York Thruway,
the U.S. Post Office and as a night watchman. This gave him the
tuition money, but his B and C average would hold him back. At
one point, he met with the president of Notre Dame, Father Theodore
Hesburgh, CSC, also a Holy Rosary graduate. Afterward, Barry found
out he was being admitted to Notre Dame. Barry's dream would come
true.
As a Notre Dame student, Barry continued to save for tuition.
He fought to keep decent grades while working various jobs --
in the library, summer warehouse storage, as a waiter for the
priests on campus.
Second semester of his junior year, Barry's dream seemed to
have ended. The money for tuition was more than a little short.
With things looking bleak only a miracle could save his lifetime
dream. And indeed a miracle presented itself. A forgotten insurance
policy paid off. To a nickel, it was almost the exact amount needed.
It was an answer to his prayers.
For this determined man, life again was good. During his senior
year he met Joyce, a young woman from Pecos, Texas, who was attending
Saint. Mary's College, located across the highway from Notre Dame.
Apparently, Joyce was on her last day of a novena she was saying,
a request to meet a possible future husband . Barry hit his pal
up for an introduction to her, and the two met at Frankie's one
night. The rest, as they say, is history. Ironically, as a young
boy, Barry would walk to his cousin's house to play, carrying
some of his toys. As he strolled down the street, he would sing,
"The stars at night shine big and bright," put his toys down and
clap out "Deep in the Heart of Texas," then pick his toys up and
continue on his way.
Gertrude West drove to Notre Dame for the commencement ceremonies
in which her only child would be graduating. A rather stubborn
woman, she told Barry she was not going to sit through the whole
alphabet to see whether or not his name would be called. She insisted
Barry walk her across campus, nearly a mile in distance, to see
the posted list of graduates. On the list, Gertrude did indeed
see her son's name.
That evening, Joyce joined Barry and his mother for dinner.
Barry knew he was tempting fate. Every time he had introduced
a girlfriend to his mother, she let him know that the girl was
not good enough for her son.. After dinner, Barry took his mother
back to her room. "So, Mom, what do you think of Joyce?" he asked.
Gertrude gave Barry a thumbs-up and a wink, then told her son
that she loved him. Barry left her for the night.
Gertrude died that night of a massive heart attack. Her life
must have been somewhat completed, though, knowing that her son
had graduated from a school he dreamed of going to for almost
his whole life and that he met a young woman who finally met her
standards.
Barry attended the graduation ceremonies, much of which was
only a blur to him, and then drove home. The funeral home shipped
his mother's casket back to Syracuse. As a new college graduate
and young man, Barry made the arrangements for his mother and
was left as the sole survivor of his family.
In August of the same year, Barry married Joyce. And together,
they started their own family. Barry went into the Army after
college for two years and was dismissed the day of the Cuban Missile
Crisis. In 1963, they moved to Chicago. Job moves eventually took
them to Wichita, Kansas, where Barry retired in 2002.
Barry did carry on his family's trait of heart disease. He had
a heart attack in 1978, and a triple bypass in 1985, but survived
both and is doing well. He has outlived much of his extended family.
Joyce, his wife of 38 years, died of breast cancer at age 59.
When my mom was sick, I remember sitting with my dad, crying
and saying, " I feel so sorry for you, Dad. You lost your dad
when you were an infant, your mother the night before your graduation,
your Uncle Bill, Aunt Pat and cousin Kelly, and now your wife
is dying." He looked me and said, "You know Amy, I don't see it
that way. I think I have been a very lucky man." How could anyone
argue?
