by Gordon Ryan
In mid-December, the foreman advised Tom that four hundred head of cattle were being transported to Ogden, Utah, over the Christmas holidays. The foreman told Tom he was sorry, but as the new man, Tom was being assigned the run. His reaction to Tom’s smile was one of bewilderment.
Two delays in the arrival of the cattle set the trip back, but finally, on December 26, the day after Christmas, Tom and another man got under way with four hundred thirty-two head of cattle, only to be halted in Fort Laramie where reports of a track blockage across the Wyoming flats prevented them from going on.
Finally, on December 30th, they reloaded the cattle, arriving in Ogden on New Year’s day, 1896. After they had delivered the consignment of cattle, received the signed documents, and were prepared to board the return run to Denver, Tom told his partner farewell, explaining that he was staying in Utah. He took a room in a cheap hotel and spent the next two days having his clothes cleaned, removing the cattle stench, and wallowing in the nervous excitement of knowing that he was now only forty miles from the woman who had compelled him to come more than halfway across America.
9
At seven in the morning, January 4, 1896, the Union Pacific Railroad station in Salt Lake City was packed with people as Tom stepped off the train from Ogden. Purchasing his fare, he had smiled. He had traveled over two thousand miles by rail from Bayonne, New Jersey, and this was the first time he had bought a ticket. He had worked as a laborer on a rail repair crew, been a hobo, and then a cattle tender. It struck him as remarkable that he had ridden as a paying passenger for only the last forty miles. Yet, he had succeeded in reaching Salt Lake City.
Outside the station, a number of people crowded into a horse-drawn trolley car. But Tom fell in with the dozens of people who were walking toward what appeared to be the main part of town. As they walked, the crowd grew to larger proportions, and Tom wondered what all the excitement was about. The streets were filled with trolleys, buggies, men on horseback, and people on foot. A brass band was playing, and enterprising young men circulated in the crowd, selling small American flags and pieces of fruit. Down the center of Main Street, wider than most city streets Tom had seen, a line of power poles separated the two trolley tracks that ran north and south. Remembering New York, Kansas City, and Denver, Tom was struck by the orderly design of the streets and the uniformly square blocks that had been laid out.
The atmosphere was one of revelry, and the cold didn’t seem to bother people. What seemed to be a kind of town square was surrounded by a wall. Inside the square, a huge, six-spired cathedral rose above any other building in the area, and on the south side of the cathedral, facing Tom, an enormous American flag hung draped from the upper tier of the building.
Tom stared up at the flag, slowly backing away from the wall to obtain a better view, and stepping backward into the street. Suddenly he was grabbed and jerked back onto the foot path and nearly pulled off his feet in the process, as a horse and buggy passed, the horse nervous in the crowd and its driver struggling to bring it under control.
“I’m sorry, sir, I thought the horse was possibly going to trample you.”
Tom looked around to assess the situation, realizing how foolish his gawking had been. “My fault. Thanks for the help. It wouldn’t do to come all this way and be killed in the street my first morning here, now would it?”
The square-shouldered young man who had grabbed him, smiled and nodded. “It would be unfortunate, to say the least,” he laughed.
“So,” Tom asked, looking around, “what’s the occasion today? Some kind of celebration obviously.”
“Utah’s about to become one of the states of the union. Today, we’ve joined the United States of America. We’re waiting for word that President Grover Cleveland has signed the legislation approving our entry.”
“I see. A good day to arrive then, I suppose,” Tom laughed. “My name’s Tom Callahan, sir, and you are?”
“David McKay. D.O., to my friends,” he said, pronouncing it “Dee Oh.”
“Are you from here, D.O.?”
“Actually from a small farming community up north, but I attend the university here.”
“Well, D.O., please allow me to express my appreciation for saving my life,” Tom grinned. “It means a lot to me.”
David laughed out loud and offered his hand. “If you’ve just arrived, where are you staying, Mr. Callahan? Have you got a place yet?”
“No. But perhaps you could give me some directions. I’m looking for Holy Cross Hospital. Do you know it?”
“Oh, yes. You’re on the right road. It’s ten blocks east on South Temple. That’s the street we’re on now. Can’t miss it,” he pointed.
A horse bolted upright, rearing on his hind legs as the sound of two shotgun blasts echoed through the street. People began to cheer and shout from about a half-block down Main Street. “I guess that’s it,” David said. “Looks like we’re now part of the great Union.” He patted Tom on the back, joining in the enthusiasm overtaking the crowd. “Welcome to Salt Lake, to Utah, and to the United States of America, Tom. I’m off to meet with some friends, but here,” he said, taking a pencil from his pocket, and writing on a small card. “If things don’t work out at the hospital, and you find you haven’t a place to stay the night, here’s my address. It’s only an impoverished student’s room, but don’t hesitate to come if you need a place to lay your head, and even if you don’t. Maybe after you settle in we can get together for dinner some evening. You can tell me a bit about the Emerald Isle and I’ll answer your Utah questions.”
“That obvious, is it?” Tom exclaimed.
“Kind of a hard accent to hide, Tom, but music to my ears. My people came from Scotland originally.”
“My thanks to you again, D.O. I’ll head up toward the hospital if I can get through this crowd. Congratulations to you and to Utah.”
David waved and crossed the street, heading south on Main while Tom crossed the intersection and headed east to find Holy Cross Hospital.
One block south, on the corner of First South and Main, a three minute walk from where Tom and young David O. McKay were talking, Katrina Hansen and Harold Stromberg had been mingling with the crowd, waiting for the news of statehood to arrive. In contrast to the fun-loving nature of the people around them, Harold seemed unusually sober. Katrina had noticed his mood, but neither of them had mentioned it.
“We’re in,” Harold shouted at the sound of the shotgun blasts. He grabbed Katrina, lifted her off the ground and swung her around in circles as the crowd added to the celebration, now at its peak throughout the length of Main Street, from South Temple to First South.
“Katrina Hansen,” Harold said, putting her down and looking at her intently, a smile fixed across his face. “This is a momentous day. My father’s law firm will be pleased, our citizens will be pleased, and it’s a time for new beginnings. Now the Prophet will be able to listen to the Lord again and follow His counsel.
“What do you mean, Harold?” Katrina asked.
“Oh, just the political necessities. You know, the Manifesto. Nothing to worry about. The church knows what it’s doing, and now that we’ve been granted statehood, the Prophet will see the right thing to do. But let’s talk about us.”
“Us?” she asked.
“Yes, us. For nearly six months we have been seeing each other, Katrina, and on this first day of our new statehood, I want you to know how I feel about you. I want to ask you, Katrina, to consider becoming my wife.”
The suddenness and the business-like way Harold had declared his proposal left Katrina startled, in spite of the fact that for months she had known how Harold felt and that he was just being patient. It came as no surprise, other than his timing and his direct approach. He waited silently as she considered his question.
“Harold,” she stammered, “I’m honored, but today is so hectic, and this is all so sudden.”
“Katrina, you know how I feel. I know you do.”
She nodded s
lightly, acknowledging his comments. “Please try to be patient just a bit longer, Harold. I, . . . I will pray about it, Harold. I know it’s right to do so.”
It was Harold’s turn to nod. “Yes, it is. Katrina, try to find your feelings for me. I know I can make you happy.”
The crowd began to move as one toward the telegraph office, wanting to read the message that had been received, and Katrina found herself pleased to not have to deal with the question as they were swept along. Harold did not broach the subject again until later that evening, as he took Katrina home.
“I do not think it unfair to request your considered response, Katrina, over the next week. I think we know each other well enough for that.”
“I agree, Harold. I’m truly sorry that I don’t know my own mind, but so much has happened with leaving my country, my new schooling, and—”
“I know,” Harold responded. “Just think about it, please.”
“I will, Harold. I promise.”
January 4, 1896
Dear Nana,
Oh, I am in trouble now, Nana. If I ever needed your advice, I need it now. Harold has asked me to marry him. I like him, perhaps I even love him, and I can see what a good husband he would be, but oh, Nana, I don’t know what to do!
Jeg elske du,
Trina
Walking east on South Temple, Tom easily spied Holy Cross Hospital. Approaching the large complex, with new wings under construction, Tom was a little intimidated. He walked along the west side of the main building, then stood for several minutes across the street on First South, looking at the imposing gothic structure and admiring the large number of trees and well-kept grounds. There was an extensive rose garden, pruned back for the winter, exactly as his mother had done to her rose bushes.
Twenty-eight years after Brigham Young and the first pioneers had settled in, two Catholic nursing sisters from the Order of the Sisters of the Holy Cross arrived in the Salt Lake Valley. In October of 1875, they opened their small hospital, a twelve-bed facility located west of the present site. Several years later, in a foresighted move, they instituted a health insurance program for the local miners. For the payment of one dollar a week, while in good health, Holy Cross Hospital would provide in return, full hospital and medical care during any subsequent illness or injury. Sister M. Holy Cross, a Welsh woman, was assisted by Sister M. Bartholomew, the two of them comprising the original nursing staff. Over the following years, other nursing sisters arrived to join the growing cadre of caring nurses, and local young women were trained specifically as nurses, without being required to take holy orders.
Tom walked up the front steps and through the large, double doors, stepping into the vestibule. He continued through a second set of doors and entered a large foyer, fully twelve feet across. On the right side, the door to a small chapel was open, and Tom noticed several people seated in the pews, some on their knees in prayer. A nursing sister walked by, smiling at Tom as she paused to address him.
“May I be of assistance, sir?”
Tom removed his cap, and flashed his disarming smile. “Yes, thank you. I am seeking a Sister Mary Theo . . . Uh, Sister Mary . . .”
The sister laughed politely. “You must mean Sister Mary Theophane,” she said, pronouncing it Theo-fane. “Please wait here a moment, and I’ll see if I can find her.”
Tom stood in the hallway, able to see in both east and west directions down the long corridors which made up the first floor of the hospital facility. Several minutes passed, and Tom walked to a small bench situated against the north wall of the entryway. The foyer and hallways were carpeted and the waiting area in which he was seated was beautifully appointed with fine furnishings. Everything was neat and clean.
He continued to sit nervously as his message was delivered to Sister Mary. Two nursing sisters walked by, their crisply starched habits rustling as they walked, and smiling at him in passing. After several minutes, a Sister dressed in a black habit approached from the east end of the hall, smiling brightly as she neared Tom’s seat. He rose, turning his cap in his hands as she stopped directly in front of him.
“Good morning, I’m Sister Mary Theophane,” she said. “How may I help, my son?”
Sister Mary Theophane, the person Father O’Leary had suggested Tom seek once he arrived in Utah, was a tall and handsome woman. Her manner was direct and she seemed genuinely friendly. Tom was put immediately at ease as he began to explain his purpose in calling on her.
In 1854, fifteen-year-old Moira Molloy had left Waterford, Ireland, joining in Cork with two dozen prospective postulants, and several priests, newly ordained from the seminary. All were intent on a new life in America, in service to their Lord. Among the young priests, straight out of All Hallows Seminary in Dublin, was one Father Patrick James O’Leary, from County Kerry, with whom Sister Mary Theophane would serve for the following twenty years.
The Sisters of Holy Cross, in Notre Dame, Indiana, trained Moira Molloy to be a nursing sister. Adopting the name of Sister Mary Theophane, Moira quickly lost herself in the work of nursing and care-giving, and from that point, never looked back. She had found her life’s work.
Father P. J. O’Leary was assigned to a nearby parish. An early illness, requiring hospitalization, placed him in the care of Sister Mary, and that became the basis of a forty-year friendship between the two Catholic ministrants—one a nurse and the other a priest.
Sister Mary served from 1862 until 1865 with several sisters from the congregation at Mound City Hospital, Cairo, Illinois, caring for soldiers wounded during the Civil War. Her completion of that task left her with vivid memories of the horrors of war and an excellent knowledge of emergency nursing care.
When, in 1875, the request went out from Bishop Lawrence Scanlan of the church of Saint Mary Magdalene in Salt Lake City, for several sisters to establish a hospital, Sister Mary Theophane was not long in following Sister M. Holy Cross to the assignment. By the time Tom arrived in Utah, Sister Mary had been a nursing sister for over forty years, eighteen of them at Holy Cross Hospital in Salt Lake City, and she was serving as chief administrator of the facility—probably the finest in Salt Lake City.
“Good morning, Sister. I’m Thomas Callahan. I believe we have a mutual friend in New York, and when he learned I was coming to Utah, he asked me to look you up. Father P. J. O’Leary.”
A bright smile lit up Sister Mary’s face. She turned, looking behind her, and took Tom’s arm. “Let’s have a seat in the parlor,” she said, walking toward a large, well appointed room just off the vestibule, opposite the chapel. She motioned for Tom to be seated on one of the couches, and she took the seat opposite, in an overstuffed chair.
“Ah, Father O’Leary. Now did he tell you how long an association we have?” she said, intentionally slipping a bit of her Irish brogue into the speech.
“He said you came over from Ireland together some years ago,” Tom replied. Sister Mary was an impressive woman, with intelligent, piercing eyes. She was dressed in full habit, and small wisps of graying hair escaped the closeness of her headdress. Tom guessed she was in her late fifties, but her skin was remarkably wrinkle free, except right around her eyes, where there were some crinkly laugh lines.
“Some years ago, indeed,” she laughed. “And how is the dear Father?”
Tom’s face stiffened, and he lowered his eyes. Without him saying anything, Sister Mary knew the answer to her question. She bowed her head slightly and crossed herself, then raised her eyes and asked, “How long has the dear Father been at rest?”
“He died shortly before I left New York, Sister. It was a heart attack, in September, I believe.”
“Such a kind-hearted man he was, Mr. Callahan, but I’m certain if you knew him, you’d be aware of that.” Her face brightened again, and she resumed her smile. “What assistance can I provide to you, Mr. Callahan?”
“Well, Sister, I’m planning to locate here in Salt Lake, and I was hoping that you could direct me to a good boarding house, a
nd perhaps give me an idea about employment in the area.”
Sister Mary thought for a moment, then leaned forward. “Mr. Callahan, do you know anything of building maintenance, especially heating systems?”
“I do, Sister,” he nodded.
Sister Mary began to stand, and Tom rose as well, his cap still clutched in his hands.
“Well, then, Thomas . . . May I call you Thomas? Let me show you around the hospital. Perhaps we can help each other,” she offered.
Later that evening, Tom sat alone in one corner of the hospital cafeteria, finishing his meal. He could scarcely believe his good fortune. A bed in a room in the basement of the building had been made up with fresh sheets and blankets provided by Sister Mary. And he had employment. He ate slowly, considering his next move. Sister Mary had named him maintenance man at the hospital, and he not only had a place to stay, but meals were included in his wages, and Sister Jude, in charge of the kitchen, had instantly taken him under her wing. All in all, it had been a profitable first day in Salt Lake City.
While Sister Mary presented a kind and considerate demeanor throughout Tom’s indoctrination, his stroll with her through the hospital facilities made it evident that she was in tight control of every aspect of the hospital’s operation. She imposed particularly stringent rules for the management of the nursing sisters. Tom had taken note of the requirements for the staff that were posted on the nurses’ bulletin board. The rules left little room for personal interpretation. The posting read:
Values and Priorities
Daily sweep and mop the floors of your ward, dust the patients’ furniture and window sills.
Maintain an even temperature in your ward by bringing in a scuttle of coal for the day’s business.
