MAY 17, 2024 – (Cont.) I don’t know why, but after a couple of years the Kuhlmeys moved. Maybe it was because the lilac bush refused to surrender, even after having been burned at the stake by Mr. Kuhlmey.
Replacing the Kulmeys were the Walchessens, by far the most interesting of our successors, mainly because they had a bunch of older school-age kids, all of whom were brainiacs, and everyone in the family was so well-spoken.
Even though the one boy, Eddy, was several years my junior, I could relate to him because he was surrounded by sisters. He and they never fought, however, and I was impressed by how well he stood up for himself and navigated around them, given their supremely confident intellects.
All of the kids seemed destined for careers in science. The oldest, I remember, was on her way to Tulane University with the intention of majoring in a hard science and pursuing advanced degrees after her undergraduate studies.
While home on school breaks I enjoyed nearly daily extended conversations with Ted Walchessen—the dad. He worked as a mechanic, as I recall, and hadn’t gone to college, but he was exceptionally well read, well informed, and curious about the world. It seemed that whatever topic might come into the conversation, Ted Walchessen had heard or read something about it in a serious publication such as Time, Newsweek, Smithsonian, or Scientific American. In addition to being broadly erudite, he was a gifted conversationalist. He was an excellent listener, an articulate speaker, and constantly posed questions and routes of possible inquiry. He projected patience and a natural sense of humor and was never the least bit boring. History and politics interested him as much as science and discovery did, and he was not unacquainted with art, music, and great literature.
In addition to his skill in discussing serious matters as if they were the everyday subjects of the everyday person, another trait seemed to encourage my conversations with him: Mr. Walchessen reminded me of my late violin teacher, Mr. Gilombardo.
Superficially speaking this was highly improbable. Especially in the summer, Mr. Walchessen wore jeans and a T-shirt. He was a mechanic, and he drove an old vehicle. Mr. Gilombardo was always nattily attired and drove a black Fleetwood Cadillac. He was a violinist. But both were tall and thin—thin, perhaps, because each was a heavy smoker. Both talked with the same clipped, precise, and incisive voice. Both laughed easily, yet both were serious too, very curious and highly intelligent.
I had far fewer exchanges with Mrs. Walchessen. They were confined to friendly greetings in the course of her rushed transits between house and car, car and house as she went or returned from work or an errand or ferrying the kids to or from some destination. She never signaled displeasure with Mr. Walchessen’s immersion in conversation with me, probably because he seemed to do his fair share of work and chauffeuring. He was just more relaxed about it, maybe because of the calming effect of nicotine.
In any event, Mother informed me that “Barbara,” Mrs. Walchessen, was the daughter of Albert Horejs, one of the owners of the Gearhart-Miller-Horejs Funeral Home on the other side of town. Mother added, “I think she came from money.” I had no idea if Mother pulled that notion out of thin air or was simply surmising that anyone in the funeral home business was bound to do well and leave a tidy inheritance for their offspring. I never had the chance to ask a reliable source about Mother’s assumption—and of course, I’d never ask if the chance had presented itself. But maybe, just maybe Mother was on to something; perhaps Albert Horejs had spent his money on his daughter’s education. That would explain why she was able to appreciate Ted’s intellect—and inspire their kids toward lofty academic goals.
I don’t know why or just when the Walchessens moved. By their departure, however, they surely lowered the average neighborhood household IQ by a minimum of 10 points. (Cont.)
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© 2024 by Eric Nilsson
