Our connection was alphabetical: Miller, Messerich, McGrath.
As high school sophomores, we were always together – in class, in church, at the cafeteria table, and in the dormitory bunks at St. Joseph’s Franciscan Seminary. The only exception was Frank Oberle, who, despite being further down the alphabet and hailing from Cleveland, shared our passions for hockey, Simon and Garfunkel, and Lucky Strikes.
Fred Miller, a Menomonee from Neopit, Wisconsin, was a towering figure with a sharp sense of humor. Encouraged by his pastor, he had decided to pursue the priesthood.
Mike Messerich, from St. Paul, was known for his quiet thoughtfulness. Coming from a family of hunters and anglers, he sported a crew cut and freckles.
Born in Chicago, I was jokingly labeled a “greaser” and gangster by my friends. I didn’t correct them, finding it preferable to my real identity as the somewhat nerdy middle child in a large family.
One Tuesday night before Easter, Frank casually mentioned the warm weather forecast for the next day, sparking a plan to sneak a swim in one of the campus lakes. Despite Fred’s humorous caution about potential traps, we were all eager for the adventure.
St. Joe’s was located on expansive grounds formerly belonging to the Peabody Coal Estate near Chicago, offering us plenty of space for exploration. However, the forbidden allure of Mayslake, with its crystal-clear waters, beckoned to us.
Our clandestine trip to Mayslake the following day revealed icy waters, prompting Frank and me to stay on the shore, enjoying a forbidden cigarette. Fred, on the other hand, fearlessly dove in, soon joined by Mike.
What started as a playful swim took a dangerous turn when Fred signaled for help, his voice barely audible. Initially dismissed as a prank, Mike’s swift and heroic response to Fred’s distress proved otherwise. With Red Cross training, Mike skillfully rescued Fred from a cramp-induced crisis, earning our silent awe and gratitude.
In the aftermath, as they dressed in solemn silence, Frank lightened the mood with a playful suggestion to take a less conspicuous route back to avoid detection.
Years passed, leading us on divergent paths outside the seminary. Mike pursued a career in law enforcement, eventually becoming the police chief of South St. Paul. Fred, true to his roots, was elected tribal sheriff.
Tragically, Frank’s journey was cut short by a fatal motorcycle accident in Nebraska.
As the date of the St. Joe’s reunion approaches, I anticipate reuniting with Mike and Fred, reflecting on the lessons of camaraderie and duty they imparted. I look forward to reminiscing about our escapade at Mayslake, a memory of friendship and bravery that binds us eternally.
Though words may fail to convey the depth of my emotions, I hope to express my profound gratitude and affection for these lifelong friends.