Glenna The War of Roses and My Toes-es
By Pat Hickey
January 31, 2025
When I went to Loyola back in the early 1970’s, I took a class with Dr. Trimble – English History: The Wars of the Roses To The Tudors. Only five students took the class and by the second week it was down to me and a girl named Glenna, most days as the other three students made only perfunctory appearances.
Dr. William R. Trimble was a scholar*of the old school. He was close to seventy years old and spoke in very mannered, low and formal English, but what he spoke of -Perkin Warbeck, Nat Tyler, Bolingbroke, Hotspur, Mortimer, Richard II,III, Pope Nicholas Breakspear, York and Lancaster, Richard Duke of Gloucester, Buckingham, Owen Glendower, and Henry Tudor honeyed the air of Loyola’s Lewis Tower on Rush Street, or so I believed.
Dr. Trimble began lecturing the moment he closed the door at the appointed time – if you were late you were locked out. History after all is about time.
Glenna was from the far North – Kenilworth or Winnetka and dressed like she was going to a board meeting at Northern Trust Bank. This was in the days when blue jeans were uniform of the day for Catholic girls freed from jumpers of Longwood Academy, Queen of Peace, Maria, St. Scholastica and other convents- lite.
Glenna had jet-black hair and alabaster skin and wore pearls most days and horn-rimmed black glasses. More importantly, to this late-adolescent testosterone bubbling scholar-manque, Glenna was graced by God with the body of mortal sin itself.
Her calves and legs, usually encased in grey or blue hose, were magnificently athletic and femininely arched at the feet, shod in low heeled pumps or black boots.
Glenna was a twenty-year-old Mary Tyler Moore encorpified. It took every level of self-control and self-worth in my poor powers to focus on the Wars of the Roses, when the war of hormones and romantic day-dreaming of a life as the kept man of Glenna: she attending to the world of corporate banking and larding our savings and checking accounts and me ministering to her every passion, while cooking and cleaning our Tudor Brick Home adorned by Red and White Rose bushes and maintaining my wash-board like belly, and rock hard chest with feats of home-spun athleticism.
To say that I was distracted is but understatement.
Glenna and I communicated but once as I recall – days before the end of the Spring Semester. I was seated in my usual position of advantage angled just behind and to the right of this exquisite beauty, in order to take in every move and crossing of legs, but most importantly the neck, ears and superior jaw occasionally draped by the raven hair – flicked with an elegant racking by manicured and lovely fingers.
As was my wont – I was adorned in my janitor’s uniform grey-green work slacks and light grey long sleeved shirt with patches over each pectoral -left emblazoned HICKEY and right in Gothic script ORCHESTRA HALL. I wore heavy work boots and thick white socks. I would go from my classes directly to 220 S. Michigan and work the 3-11 shift, get relieved by cousin Willie and Tony Gac, study and sleep. Get up, take a shower in the musicians’ locker room and return to class. Ah, my urban days of ivy!
My legs stretched comfortably in anticipation of Dr. Trimble’s arrival and luxuriating in the breath-takingly sexy propriety that was Glenna and I checked my notes.
Glenna forced down her Oxford University text and pulled her horn-rimmed glasses off, tossed her cascade of black hair in a sweep that scarfed her neck and stared into my eyes with her own lavender blue orbs – “Excuse me.”
My heart stopped. Yes?
“Please move or do something. Your feet smell awful. Really. I am sorry. Please; before I throw up.”
Slack jawed and silently I skulked back several seats and rows away. Dr. Trimble saved me from further shame by transporting me to Bosworth Field.
I got an A + for my essay, notes and exams; never saw Glenna again.
By the way, my feet had soured (Bromodosis), due to the fact that I wore the same work shoes day-in-day out in rain, snow, and slush. My doctor gave me a formaldehyde regimen. Rule -toss BoonDockers and tennis shoes; merely washing the feet don’t do it. Must do the formaldehyde. One must.
My feet are like Roses, ever since Glenna.
*1979:
William R. Trimble:
Faculty Member of the Year, Loyola
-30-
Born November 8, 1952 in Englewood Hospital, Chicago Illinois, Pat Hickey attended Chicago Catholic grammar and high schools, received a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature from Loyola University in 1974, began teaching English and coaching sports at Bishop McNamara High School in Kankakee, IL in 1975, married Mary Cleary in 1983, received a Master of Arts in English Literature from Loyola in 1987, taught at La Lumiere School in Indiana from 1988-1994, took a position as Director of Development with Bishop Noll
Institute in Hammond, IN and then Leo High School in Chicago in 1996. His wife Mary died in 1998 and Hickey returned with his three children to Chicago’s south side. From 1998 until 2019, it became obvious that Illinois and Chicago turned like Stilton cheese on a humid countertop. In that time, he wrote a couple of books and many columns for Irish American News. When the kids became independent and vital adults, he moved to Michigan City, Indiana, Hickey substitute teaches K-12 for Westville, Indiana schools and works as a tour guide/deckhand on the Emita II tour boat. He walks to the Michigan City Lighthouse every chance he gets.
Comments 24
What a great story. Had an experience like that when I was in college. As I age, the memories are phenomenal.
Pat, I found a Glenna in every one of my classes. It’s what kept me motivated. Priceless ending. I was sure there would be a romantic encounter.
Alas, my college love-life could be presented with great accuracy each Sunday on Mass for the Shut-Ins.
Kass married his Glenna!
yes! we were blessed!
Sir:
This is a great story. Thank you,
In this post-election, America becoming Great Again, it’s fun to laugh again. Thanks.
Wonderful story! Thank you.
Great story, are we all not Legends and Supermen in our own minds until we are not?
James, you stole my comment.
My Glenna and I have been married since 1977.
My wife of 57 years and I are Loyola graduates, albeit about a decade before your time there. Maria- a southwest sider who took the Archer Avenue bus and the El to Lewis Towers each day- had Dr Trimble for freshmen honors history. She regards him as one of significant figures in her educational life. She will never forget one of her classmates bursting through the door of Dr Trimble’s classroom with the news that President Kennedy had been shot. As to dress habits, back in the day women students were not allowed to wear slacks; dresses or skirts were de rigueur. Moreover many Lewis Towers students had part-time office jobs to support the outrageous tuition of almost $500 per semester! Thus Glenda’s style of dress was the norm in our day. As to gorgeous Loyola coeds, I would be hard-pressed to disagree!
The path of male improvement is littered with many a tale of female rejection. You got an A+ and healthier feet. Best to let Glenna be some other lusty fool’s problem.
‘With the body of mortal sin itself’. Great line, great line. Brought back many a memory. Thanks.
I reread your piece again. Had to call my parish church and schedule confession this Saturday.
Thanks again.
Is that her real picture?
Γιάννη,
I married mine! 55 years ago!!
One more story bout Loyola U. After 2 years of general classes, i declared
my major, Psychology. I was then assigned an advisor. I went to meet her. While waiting there was this very young shapely woman walking around in waiting area. Mid thigh tight skirt, like wise tight white mohair sweater, boots and Jane Fonda ‘Klute’ hair style. She disappeared in a small office. Then came out and up to me and said: ‘I’m Dr. Naomi Weisstein, I’m your advisor!. I totally fell for her. She was only 3 1/2 years older than me. She was a genius in neuroscience. Graduated 1st from Wellesley, then first from Harvard grad school in 2 1/2years. Couldn’t get a job at a high ranking University because of her gender but Loyola gave her a chance. My hopes were dashed when I found out she was happily married. I followed her around like love starved puppy.
We were close friends for almost 50 years.
Too bad the course seems to have been a lecture thing . In a good seminar , the author might have been able to exercise his insight and wit in the cut and thrust of a Socratic dialogue . And then after a cuppa and ,later, a bottle of Mateus , things might have gone past Platonic
Pat, your writing shows the quality of a Loyola education, particularly English.
My “ex” was getting her MA/PhD at Lake Shore in the same era. I know how hard she and her grad school mates worked, and I knew several English faculty. Definitely old school. The premise and centerpiece of your article is for most of us “the one that got away”.
At that same time I had the good fortune to do my “window shopping” on the concourses of ORD that I traversed daily. Great times great memories.
Had something similar happen in a Political Science class.
After working an 8 hour shift at a local farm implement plant I had to go to class in my work clothes.
I asked to borrow a pen for notes from the girl I was interested in. She just scowled at me and turned away.
I followed my Mother’s advice on dealing with snotty girls.
“Your loss toots”
Hilarious Pat, thanks! I can smell your feet from here!
Houli
Been there. Done that – except for the smelly shoes.
Pat, quite possibly the most accurate depiction I’ve ever read of how all we guys physiologically reacted to the best lookin’ girl in class. We guys all know one. Come to think of it, not one woman has weighed in on your essay so far. As for me, I recall a knockout beauty I used to see in the cafeteria at NIU in the mid 70’s. In fact, just this afternoon I was staring at her across the kitchen table and thinking to myself, “damn, that is fine!”. Anniversary #47 coming up in April.
It’s been 50 years Mr. Hickey. You probably shouldn’t see what Glenna looks like now.
Great.!