"I guess everything changes...
... except what you choose to recall." With apologies to Merle Haggard, here's a little of what I choose to recall about my time growing up in Reno- "The Biggest Little City in the World" according to the Reno Chamber of Commerce.
I mentioned previously my time in the Catholic day home run by the Sisters of Mercy in Reno. That didn't happen completely by necessity of wartime. My mother, Doris Ross, may have had a father of Scottish decent (yeah- I'm named after Robert the Bruce, a genuine bad ass in the history of Scotland), but mom had a mother who was very much an Irish Catholic. And mom was raised a Catholic herself. Something that nagged at her about her marriage to my father was that he was emphatically agnostic: 'Fate', he was sure, was at the root of everything which happened to a person. They talked thru the dilemma and predictably my father said yes to me being baptized. I guess it was fate.
I recall the baptism clearly. A guy in a black dress with a long sleeved white blouse over the top tried to drown me in a shallow bath tub with very cold (and not very clean!) water. After he failed at his job I learned that we were going to celebrate my survival by having dessert for lunch. Hey- not bad. I also learned I was now a Catholic. "What's a Catholic?" After a brief explanation I didn't understand I asked the usual follow-up query "Why?"
My mother had a plan. And that plan involved me doing something equivalent to kindergarten at the Day Home which would then grease the skids for me getting into grammar school at St. Thomas Aquinas. St Thomas had an 8-year curriculum taught by ('as I choose to recall') Dominican nuns. During that time I had daily instruction in the typical subjects but, thanks to a longer-than-public-school daily schedule, I also had instruction in things religious. Then came First Communion, Confirmation and I did some time as an altar boy. And no, I have no scandalous tales of the latter. Well... other than some unnamed altar boys raiding the stash of altar wine to sample the goods (ugh!).
On top of all this new direction in my life, my father agreed to repeat his marriage vows. My folks were first married in (I think!) 1934 in Winnemucca, Nevada, but in 1951 they repeated their marriage vows in a Catholic wedding at St. Theresa's church where I was an altar boy. I was there for the ceremony, so unlike most Americans I got to see my parents get married. Before that ceremony my father was required to attend a couple sessions with a priest to make sure he understood his responsibilities. The priest that was assigned the task was (again 'as I choose to recall') Father Murphy. Apparently they couldn't have made a better choice.
Fr. Murphy had a thick Irish accent acquired in his birth-country of Ireland. And he had a good sense of humor and I never saw him when he wasn't wearing a big grin. As my dad recalled their meetings they swapped stories and told lies about growing up and generally had a good time together. He thought Fr. Murphy was a great guy. The introductory teachings started off with 'You've been married for 17 years so I doubt I can change your religious beliefs. And Bruce is an altar boy so you aren't doing anything to interfere with his religious practice. Do you think you're going to get special treatment at the pearly gates?' 'I doubt it, but it makes no difference. Dead is dead.' 'Indeed it is! So let's move on to the important stuff- are you guys going on another honeymoon? Where will you go?' 'Well not back to Winnemucca- I lost my shirt at the roulette wheel!' And so it went. I doubt Fr. Murphy is in line for sainthood but he ought to be. And my father would have agreed.
At one point while I was an altar boy I was assigned to serve at the mid-week 7:00 AM morning mass for about a week. As I recall, that was in the basement chapel of St Theresa's. My father asked if many people showed up and I said it was exceptional if we had more than 2 people in attendance. Without saying anything to me beforehand, the next morning he arrived for mass before he went to work; he sat at the back making no attempt to kneel, stand, pretend to pray or in any way participate by mimicking anyone else. Other than the priest and me, he was the only one there so there was no one there to mimic! After the service the priest asked if I knew him and I told him 'Yeah- that was my dad. He's not a Catholic'. The next Sunday that same priest had a rather scathing sermon about how the only person attending morning service had been a non-Catholic. One of those aren't-you-ashamed-of-yourselves sermons that does more to turn people off than encourage participation. But I loved it and could hardly wait to tell my father!
The history page on Wikipedia for St Theresa church says it was
originally housed in a brick building on the corner of Vassar St and Wells
Ave. Well they got the location right but the original building was a
modified 2 story Army barracks acquired from the government and donated by a local business. The only brick building on the site was the rectory. The 2nd floor of the old barracks had been removed leaving an enormous open interior. That interior had been upgraded and finished before they installed the altar, pews and all the statuary you expect in a Catholic church. The wood building had been set on a new foundation which included a huge basement. Seemed like a perfectly good facility with the original hardwood floors (who but the gov would put hardwood floors in an Army barracks?!) but I guess
those in a position to know saw it differently. They're now on their 3rd (4th by my count) building in their 3rd location.
One more little story before I close this reminiscence...
Harold's Club was the biggest and most successful casino in Reno at the time. It was named after Harold Smith and built by him and his brother Raymond but their father ("Pappy") was made the GM. Apparently the Smith family was Catholic though I'm not completely sure of that. Rather than attend services at a single church, the family would change location every Sunday. After each service one of the chores of the altar boy was to empty the collection plate and bag the money before the next service. It was usually a brief chore as donations were always pretty slim- small change with the occasional silver dollar or a one dollar bill. On one Sunday I saw a big stack of silver dollars instead of the usual small change. Plus there was a $20 bill. Very unusual. The other altar boy said "The Smith family was here. They're the only ones that donate like this. You know- the ones that own Harold's Club." Well I didn't know but I did once he told me! They were very generous with the profits and a goodly amount apparently went back into the community.
Bill Harrah who opened Harrah's Club was another unique Reno-ite. He loved cars and had a penchant for collecting old models and having them restored. He built a public museum in Sparks some time after I left but he had a fair collection when I was living in Reno. He built a sizeable metal building after the war (metal for a building or materials of any kind were not available during the war) then went scouting for a mechanic. A good friend of ours, Omar Jacobs, was one of the best in town so Harrah made him an offer he couldn't refuse.
One of Omar's conditions, however, was that he be able to keep his existing client base as there were a lot of folks depending him. Apparently Harrah was a little reluctant (maybe concerned about having strangers around his expensive restorations) but finally acquiesced with the condition that he work on his customer's cars in the evening. Omar kept our old 1936 Buick running thru the war when he had his own shop, then kept the ancient 1939 Chevie going for another couple years. We finally got a 1947 Chevrolet in about 1949 or '50 and took it to Omar one evening to check it out. He did but while I was at the shop I was floored by the collection of old cars Omar was working on (the mechanical parts... others did the body work). The cars appeared in most parades they had in Reno while I was living there.
I had received a .22 caliber rifle as a Christmas gift and during a brief conversation with Bill Harrah's wife during a visit for a tune-up she asked "do you have enough ammunition? Come on over to the house- my son has plenty." They had a very small 2 bedroom house near the shop and (wait for it!) a coyote for a guard dog! I thought I was about to lose one or more body parts getting to the door, but she spoke to him sharply and he reluctantly let me pass. I left with 2 or 3 boxes .22 caliber long rifle ammunition and a great story.
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