Fortunate Son - Chapter 1:

In through the large, open doors of the hospital entrance, the cold, morning wind flowed. The air was charged with the scents of carnations and tulips planted outside, and as it drifted indoors, it contrasted with the frozen, sterile odor of the place. A tall, jovial mail clerk paused his routine to join the group of people standing at the receptionist's desk and listening to the radio. The front entrance seemed to be the only quiet place, as they stood transfixed by the President's words. Some stared at their shoes in silence, and others looked at the ceiling, but all were dependent on the assurance found in Roosevelt's voice. Nevertheless, the hospital was busy, and it seemed as though the warmth in the receptionist's smile was reflected on the faces of every doctor and nurse. The red roses on every desk gave it away.

It was Valentine's Day, 1943.

The mail clerk's attention was now fixed on delivering the mail. His duty carried him to every area of the hospital. As he walked down the clean hallways, he noticed reprinted masterpieces from Monet and contemplated the many techniques of an artist's paintbrush. An artist himself, the mail clerk sighed at the thought of ever visiting the Louvre in Paris. However, the colors of his thoughts were smudged like turpentine on oil paint as audible cries of newborns carried through the hallways. With his curiosity getting the best of him, he decided to stop outside at least one delivery room and listen to the excitement within.

"Heyyy! Praise God for our son!" shouted the young, boisterous, Welsh father.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Owens," said the doctor to the young Italian mother, sitting up with a pillow behind her and enjoying a moment of serenity.

Just over a year before, these two people met in a church service, where many still mourned the previous month's devastation at Pearl Harbor. It was 31 year-old Ross Wheeler Owens, Jr. who literally kicked the feet of a 27 year-old registered nurse named Mary Nicoleta DiRisio. Her feet were resting under the pew on which he had been sitting in front of her. He turned around to apologize and was immediately captivated. From there, "pardon me" became "I do" nearly three months later. They were married on March 6, 1942. Mary, who was charmed with how much a gentleman her husband was and with his caring and loving ways, was soon expecting a child. On February 14, 1943 they had their first son, Roger Daniel Owens.

Roger Owens, who received his middle name from Mary's immigrant father Daniel, was taken home that day from the hospital in Glendale, California, to their small home in Eagle Rock. As they pulled into the driveway, a boy hopped along the sidewalk in front of their house, dragging a stick across the picket fence, which badly needed a paint job. With the words of a song stuck in his head thanks to his grandmother, the boy sang "Jeepers, creepers, where'd ya get those peepers" over and over again in his best Louis Armstrong voice. Ross noticed the boy and waved to him, while the kid went merrily along. Ross, glowing with pride, opened the screen door for his wife and new baby and then followed them inside.

Roger's father, Ross, only four years earlier had left Tulsa, Oklahoma at the age of 28. He had already graduated with an A.A. Degree from a community college in Wichita, Kansas. He arrived in California, and by the time Roger was born he had found employment as a ship-ping clerk at a pickle factory. On the side, Ross was an ordained Baptist minister, whose goals included reaching out through missionary work and helping unify various church denominations throughout the Los Angeles area. Mary had left behind her small town life in Homesville, Pennsylvania and worked as a nurse in New York. After some time, she moved to California to find work and to enjoy the great weather. Now Mary worked less and stayed at home to take care of their newborn. Within a few months, Ross and Mary learned they were on their way to having their second child. It was another curly towhead, but this time a little girl named Ruth Josephine Owens, born on July 9, 1944, barely a month after D-Day.

It was the end of summer, 1945, and World War II was over. After the war, Ross witnessed to people how America might have helped win a war, but it was not "off the hook" in God's eyes. There was still much work to be done to improve the country's condition. True or not, America would survive. Many Americans sought higher levels of opportunity and prosperity. The people of America had faced the barren, dimly lit back alleys of the Great Depression and had lived through a hard-fought, four-year war. Americans embraced a sense of normality and looked once again to the simpler things in life to carry them through the workday. The country rolled up its sleeves and began a new era of working hard and playing hard. But Americans also needed lazily spent weekends with barbecues and picnics to find sanity, entertaining friends and family with stories of baseball games and baseball legends of bygone eras. Whether people lived near the choppy, wind-blown seas of the vast Atlantic, along the banks of the massive, winding Mississippi, or near the glittering waters of the awesome Pacific, every American found something to relate to, but nothing held the country together like baseball.

Every town had its heroes.

Williams. Spahn. "Lefty" Grove. Greenberg.

Feller. Musial. DiMaggio. Snider.

Every store had customers who were convinced their team would win the World Series. But New York had the privilege of having three teams, the Dodgers, Giants, and Yankees. Rivalries betweens the teams only proved that while wars fought over the future of humanity might have ended, wars for pennants and championship rings were always being waged. Veterans of World War II, the true heroes who helped preserve the country and its way of life, could now find comfort in watching baseball games. In family picnics all across the nation, it was possible to find at least one young man, back from the fighting lines, sitting peacefully with his young family on the cool grass and recalling one U.S.O. show in particular. While reminiscing about how Bob Hope brought out a stunning Greta Garbo to show the uniformed boys what they were "fighting for," the young man opened his eyes and smiled as he affectionately ran his fingers over his father's old ball cap, its once royal blue now faded and its stitches of the white letter "B" now unraveled. The young veteran knew immediately that all the soldiers fought for more than Garbo. They fought for a free way of life.

They fought for baseball.

While this sentiment was shared among people day after day, every street corner soon filled with neighborhood kids eager to grab their mother's broom handle and a beat-up baseball to set up a game of "stick ball." While some of the kids sat on their front porches thinking of their beloved Brooklyn Dodgers, other kids daydreamed about how their mighty Yankees could easily beat the bunch of Brooklyn bums from across town.

Little Roger, with blonde, curly locks and glistening blue eyes, was a growing boy still unaware of the desperation his father faced in pro-viding for a family, which was soon to include a set of fraternal twins, a girl named Priscilla Louise and a boy named Philip Appleman, and by 1948, another sister named Esther Anne Owens. As Roger sat down to eat breakfast one morning, his mother looked at Ross.

"We're always running out of food. I can't buy milk fast enough, because the kids are drinking it up as soon as I buy it," Mary said.

The steadfastness of Ross' faith in God was evident in his response, even though the stress should have brought beads of sweat rolling down his balding head. He calmly said, "I know, Mary. For my part, I can drive a milk truck, and for the Lord's part, He will provide." Little Roger didn't quite comprehend the determination of such a faith, but he did know that Mom and Dad were praying that they would get through tough times. After all, they were starting to receive food and clothing from several people at church.

Roger always found time to play with his younger sister Ruthie. Even Ross' mother Emeline, who lived in Los Angeles, would love to visit just to watch the little ones. On many occasions, Mary dressed them up and took pictures. With a teddy bear in tow, or dressed in little sailor outfits, they could get away with anything. Roger was proud to have a little sister like Ruthie, with her sky-blue eyes and hair that was slowly turning from blonde to brown. They also adored their younger siblings. But growing up during the end of the 1940's and into the early 1950's meant increasing distress because the Owens family was barely getting by.

They moved to a small house on 2130 Palm Avenue in National City, near San Diego, California. The house was built next to a large dry canyon. Staring out of the bedroom window, six year-old Roger watched the cotton clouds, their edges glowing in the mid-day sky. He rested his hands on the windowsill and noticed how pleasing the warmth from the sun felt on his hands. Standing there, he saw how fat the cumulus clouds were, yet how empty they must be to touch. Suddenly, he heard his stomach grumble. Lately, it was a sound that everyone in the Owens family had heard. The creaking of wooden floors and the crying of babies throughout the night proved to be stressful. But nothing could compare to the frustration of having empty stomachs and empty cupboards, and when Mary's stomach growls interrupted her own prayers, she wept uncontrollably.

Some days, Roger noticed how his mom wore the same tattered house clothes for days in a row. He wanted to believe things would get better. He saw Ruthie playing with her dolls, but that did little to reassure him. After a while, they began to get adjusted to their new place. Things stayed the same with the Owens family, but within a year, Mary was expecting another child.

The time had passed, and finally Mary was ready.

She was going to have her next child, so they gathered all that they needed, and Ross' old Ford took off like a steam engine locomotive, slow at first, then full speed. They arrived at the hospital and, although this was familiar for Mary, she was nervous. Finally, after several hours of agonizing labor, she gave birth to a daughter. Already decided, Ross and Mary announced the baby's name, Pauline Elizabeth. While they smiled, the doctor suddenly noticed the baby wasn't responding well.

"Mrs. Owens, we need to help the baby. Just sit tight for me okay?" the doctor said resolutely, but with an underlying uneasiness.

They ran some tests, but time was running out, and the baby began to show signs of losing its first and only battle. The doctors did all they could, but after several hours they could do no more.

Little Pauline died in the delivery room.

Ross held his wife's hand firmly.

As tears gathered, overfilled, and slid down the contours of their saddened faces, they remained still. Beads of Mary's perspiration formed on her forehead and then slid down the sides of her eyebrows. As they mingled with her tears, they glided down both sides of her face. Then, one by one, they dropped from her chin onto one of the petals of her flower-print hospital gown. Ross sat forward in his chair holding Mary's hand, and he quickly went into prayer before God. Ross and Mary sat there for nearly an hour, while Mary's soreness from delivering the baby was overshadowed by the aching of her spirit. To them, Pauline was a flower whose blossom would be seen not in the sight of men but of angels.

Despite this, Mary would always acknowledge Pauline as one of her children.

For many days, Mary walked around the house quietly. She didn't eat much, and if not for her children, she would have secluded herself within the four walls of her bedroom.

After some time had passed, the grief had run its course, and suddenly all the problems rushed back, like waves forming on the horizon and crashing thunderously on the shore. The family's situation wasn't improving. Ross' efforts to earn more money were hopelessly inadequate with five children to clothe and feed. His door-to-door campaign, which raised money for his missionary labor, was just not enough to bring financial stability.

Another year had passed, and Ross continued to work with the church as well as to find additional work as a taxi driver, but as always it wasn't enough, and the stress was volcanic.

It had been unusually quiet lately between Roger's mom and dad. At dinner, the only sounds were the clanking of forks on plates and the whining of his younger siblings.

One night, the threads of silence were tearing, as soft voices could be heard from inside the bathroom. Ross was speaking in deep, easy dulcet tones, but Mary was crying.

"We're having another one, Ross," Mary said solemnly as she stared down at her light-blue slippers. Ross lifted up her chin and looked at his wife compassionately. He saw no glistening in her deep-set, brown eyes. He noticed how the stress had taken its toll on her brown, slightly curly hair, turning many strands of it gray. Ross also saw her lips, pouting in sadness just above her strongly defined jaw. Yet, with the admission that a baby was on the way, Ross' heart filled with joy that God would provide yet another child. However, he was keenly aware of just how stricken with anguish he and his wife were. By now, Ross was working several jobs to make ends meet for his family, which was about to include his sixth child. For nearly a decade Mary's existence had been focused on taking care of the children or dealing with pregnancy. The only stability she knew, with regard to money and food, was that there was no stability.

Finally the day came to have the baby. They were prepared for anything. This time, it was a healthy baby girl. They named her Elizabeth Anne, taking the middle name Elizabeth from Pauline's name. Ross and Mary rejoiced and enjoyed the moment. "That's one more for heaven," said Ross jubilantly, as he did every time a child was born.

The doctors and nurses smiled.

After a few days the celebration came to an abrupt halt because of the many daunting challenges in their lives. It seemed as though their happiness was a candle's flame, flickering near an open window on a relentlessly windy day.

Mary was slowly losing hope. To add to her distress, in less than a year she was expecting yet another child.

One Saturday morning, she again bowed her head and told Ross the news.

As she told him, Ruthie, Philip, Priscilla, and Esther were playing with their toys. Roger, however, had the radio on, which was broadcasting a Saturday Dodger game. He listened with a grin the size of the outfield at Ebbets Field. He heard the crowd, roaring like a lion at the circus, tamed only by a Dodger victory. His mom and dad held each other, and again she cried uncontrollably and wailed loud. The sound was drowned by a 7th inning Dodger rally, Barber's plea for Robinson to be safe on a suicide squeeze, and the wild chanting of the Brooklyn crowd. He stared at his baseball pennants that were on the wall. Roger was happy.

During the next few days, Mary was busy with a few of her household routines, but she seemed solemn and demanded less of her kids, as though interaction was the biggest chore in her day.

"Dad, have you noticed how mom has been acting lately?" asked Roger.

"What do you mean, son?" replied Ross.

"Well, she said she was gonna take us to get ice cream. Then, she said that she never said that and wanted to sleep instead. Then today she stayed in her room all day. When she came out, I went up to her, but she walked right by me," he continued. "I think she hasn't been getting enough rest. You can pray for her before you go to sleep, Roger," his dad responded. The day had come again. As she had done seven times before, Mary brought another child into the world. With a change of clothes packed, Mary was physically prepared, but she wasn't emotionally ready to give birth. To say she was ready to bear another child would be to imply that there was contentment in her life. She was not content, especially with having no certainty of adequate provision for her children.

She seemed more machine than woman, more programmed and less spirited.

The Owens family continued to suffer at the hands of poverty. Its grip held them tightly, slowly suffocating Mary's spirit. The newest arrival, Lois Marie, had been born months ago, but in her mind the labor pains still lingered. Growing inside her were thoughts of futility, sorrow, emotional stress, and desperation. Her thoughts gave birth to a hypnotic state of melancholy, and she considered ending her life. She held out for nearly a year, but when she realized one more baby was due, her very being was filled with despondency, as though receiving intravenous drips of depression. Drained of all hope, suicide was her only solution.

Living in National City, but dying within, Mary was merely an ember of the fire that once burned so brightly. Quiet yet intelligent, she exhibited such an anchored character that only dire situations such as these could shake her. Her inability to make a difference financially shattered her fortitude and burdened her heart.

She stared into nothingness.

Her eyes blinked. They opened to a frightening new dimension.

Mental breakdown.

Devoid of promise and purpose, she gave into the voices that spoke to her. These same voices haunted her and held her down as they injected memories of her two twin brothers who had died as infants in the great flu epidemic of 1918, and of her beloved younger sister, Virginia, whose dress had caught fire from waving around sparklers on one July 4th, and whose life was extinguished before her very eyes. The voices also recalled a time when a menacing neighbor girl approached young Mary. She threw a small pebble at her, and it became lodged in Mary's right eye, leaving her partially blind. The voices taunted her about her present conditions, and she obeyed them. One day, she took a walk. One month pregnant, she strolled outside her house. She saw an oncoming car. Suddenly, the sounds of loud horns and the head-turning shriek of brakes became a concerto of catastrophe as Mary threw herself in front of the car. Fortunately, she survived.

One night, Mary made her way to the front door. She looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was 1:30 a.m. She closed the front door behind her and walked down to a nearby park and sat there. Holding her hands together, she looked down at the ground and other times stared up at the stars. After an hour, she sighed and walked back home.

"Mary? Where did you go?" Ross asked as he waited outside in front of the house.

"To the park," she replied.

"Why?" he added.

"I don't know," was all she could say. Ross put his coat on her, put his arm around her, and walked her back inside. A week later, Mary put on a coat and walked out of the house, but this time it was 2:30 a.m. She walked to the park and sat there for an hour. She talked to herself, and then sat in silence. Again she looked at the ground, as if she were studying encrypted scratches in the cement, and then looked up into the navy blue heavens, full of flashing stars, some of them burning out thousands of light years away. She took a deep breath and then sighed, as though exhaling all of her spirit. She walked back home.

"Mary, where did you go?" Ross asked as he again waited outside for her.

"To the park," she answered.

"Why?" he added.

"I don't know," was all she could say. Again, Ross put his arm around her, walked her back inside, and tucked her into bed. Less than a month later, in a moment uninterrupted by doorbells, phone calls, and crying babies, Mary walked into the bathroom and cut her wrists. She was found bleeding and was rushed to the hospital where she required stitches on both wrists.

These events were kept away from the kids, but Ross needed to address his children in a family meeting to pray for their mom.

One evening, Ross was in his room on his knees in prayer. He was thanking God again for an envelope he had found in their mailbox earlier that day. In the envelope there was $10 in cash. It had been left anonymously as a gift for the struggling family. After reviewing a few Bible verses, Ross stood up and went into the living room. Roger was doing chores in the kitchen when, suddenly, he heard his dad rounding up all the kids with his commanding voice. It was now 1953, and 10 year-old Roger was curious as to why his mom was taking a nap, missing the family prayer.

"Dad, shouldn't we go get mom so she can join us?" asked Roger.

"No Roger. She's resting."

To the older kids, it was clear that something was wrong even before Ross began to speak. Roger couldn't sit still. The only other time he got this nervous was when he was listening to his Dodgers over the radio, and the game was close. It was the ninth inning and they were down by two. The Duke of Flatbush, Duke Snider was at bat. He could win the game with one swing of the bat, since there were two Dodgers on base, Jackie Robinson on third jumping up and down in anticipation, and Pee Wee Reese on second. Roger sat closer to the radio, charmed as much by the noise from the Brooklyn crowd as the crack of Snider's bat as he swung mightily, sending the cowhide ball to its resting place over the wall in right-center field. But it was his dad's voice that brought him back away from Barber's play-by-play.

"Roger?" his dad boomed.

"Sorry, sir," Roger sheepishly answered.

"Roger, Ruthie, Priscilla, Philip, everyone listen up. Your mom isn't feeling well. I want all of you to pray for her right now okay?" he asked.

"Okay, Dad," said Roger and Ruthie harmoniously while the younger ones nodded their heads and stared with blank-eyed innocence.

They sat still and prayed quietly. Ross was on his knees praying beside them.

Roger tried not to look his dad directly in the eyes for more than a moment, but he often managed to catch a look at him when his dad wasn't aware. Sometimes, Roger saw his dad's steely blue eyes and, when they squinted in disapproval, they could snare the guilt out of him, like he had pulled a rug from under his feet. He continued to study his dad's face. Roger didn't know much about the purpose of one's life or the salvation that his dad believed in, but he did know that his dad's smile was enough to relax his soul.

Excerpted from The Perfect Pitch © Copyright 2005 by Daniel S. Green. Reprinted with permission by Llumina Press. All rights reserved.