I spent more time at 627 S. Ridgeland, the Gunderson home Marie Wackrow lived in for 62 years, than any house except my own. When I was growing up, I only knew her as the mother of my best friend, Jerry. From 1960 till 1965, especially in the summers, I spent most of my time in one house or the other, the alley that connected them, and Longfellow Park across the street. My first overnight camping experience took place in the Wackrows’ backyard.
I knew Marie simply as the harried mom of a lively household with a lot of kids. She told me once that our section of Oak Park was known in the 1950s as “Fertile Acres,” and the neighborhood was indeed overrun, “run” being the operative word. Endless games of Kick the Can, Spud, Freeze Tag, and that epic, block-encompassing game of hunter and hunted: Chase. We must have been exhausted (not to mention famished) every nightfall.
The Wackrow household was much livelier and more chaotic than mine, so it was an interesting change of pace. And it all revolved around Marie. I was surprised when I found out, much later in life, that she taught in the Chicago Public School system for three decades. Teaching and then presiding over a house filled with seven rambunctious kids during one of the most turbulent decades in American history, she must have had a high tolerance for loosely channeled energy. All I knew is that she was a fixture during the five or six best summers of my life — and that she always looked tired.
Then life changed. Jerry and I graduated from Ascension and attended different high schools. We lost touch. At some point, I heard he was having problems, and later still that he was diagnosed with schizophrenia. A three-decade-long odyssey with mental illness ensued, packed with ups and downs, progress and setbacks, crises and plateaus, hospitalizations and independent living, medication and failure to medicate. Marie showed surprising strength and courage in standing by him all those years.
As a parent, I can’t imagine what it must have been like. I tried hard not to imagine what that was like.
When I moved back to Oak Park in 1990 after a 20-year absence, I learned that Marie was actively involved with the local chapter of NAMI, the National Alliance for the Mentally Ill. She co-founded the local drop-in center, now located at 816 Harrison St., just west of Oak Park Avenue. She turned into a surprisingly effective advocate for a cause that remains largely overlooked.
Jerry died about 15 years ago of lung cancer (people suffering from schizophrenia tend to be heavy smokers). Marie certainly could have been forgiven for letting up on her involvement in NAMI. She had certainly put in her time, paid her dues. Surprisingly, her involvement seemed to increase. She became a champion, not only of those suffering from mental illness, but the family members who provide the victims’ primary support systems — people in the trenches who aren’t celebrated nearly as much as they deserve for their courage and dedication.
An awful stigma surrounds mental illness. I know this as well as anyone. Jerry’s illness frightened me, and I never really reached out or provided support. Sad to say, I was not a very good friend when the going got toughest.
But I’m not alone. Our tax dollars provide very little support for these afflicted families. Then again, there are so many areas where we come up short, so it’s extremely easy for us to ignore this unsettling affliction.
Marie, however, soldiered on, undaunted, quietly raising awareness in her low-key way. I would see her at Ascension Church on Sunday, handing out communion. I learned she belonged to a bridge group. She traveled. On March 30, at the age of 86, she surprised us all when she died of a brain aneurysm in New Orleans, her last trip.
Last October, the class of 1966 held a reunion at Ascension, which included a tour of the school building where we grew up. We climbed the familiar stairs from the Pine Room to the second floor, and above the door to the first classroom we came to, we found a plaque dedicated to the memory of Jerry Wackrow.
That was Marie — full of surprises. She continued to enjoy life and live fully to the very end. This “ordinary mom” surprised me over the years by turning into an excellent role model.
She surprised me most by becoming one of my heroes.