The Front Porch: Mother’s Day gift gives back

It seems unthinkable that as a lifelong Spokane resident I’d never set foot inside one of our most-photographed buildings until recently. Especially because without it, I probably wouldn’t be here.

The Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist has been an elegant addition to the Spokane skyline since the 1920s. Its classic Gothic architecture makes it a popular destination for school field trips and sightseeing tours.

In 1950, my mother came to Spokane from Hayden, Idaho, to work as a housekeeper for C.E. McAllister, the dean of St. John’s. My father, an airman from Arkansas, was stationed at Fairchild. They met at a local church, and the rest, as they say, is history – my history.

When I read that the Whitworth Choir would perform its spring concert at the cathedral, I decided it was time to make my pilgrimage.

Like an awe-struck tourist I gawked at the soaring stone arches as I entered the nave. I slid into a pew and marveled at the sunlight streaming through the multitude of stained glass windows.

The choir began to sing, and the resonant melodies and intricate harmonies of Bach filled the cathedral and enveloped the packed crowd in dulcet tones.

As I sat surrounded by music and beauty, I thought about my mother. I grew up hearing stories about her work for the eccentric Mrs. McAllister and her dignified husband. My mother often reminisces about the hardwood floors she scrubbed and the silver she polished in the dean’s home. She loves to tell the story about the time my father came to pick her up for a date and ended up talking baseball with Dean McAllister.

While enjoying the music, I wondered if it would be possible to give her a glimpse of her former home.

The day after the concert I called the cathedral. The current Dean of St. John’s, the Rev. Bill Ellis, graciously agreed to open his home to my mother and me. But as we chatted I realized the current deanery was not where my mom lived in 1950. Dean Ellis’ house doesn’t have a ballroom or a library or dozens of steep stone steps winding to the front porch. But if Rev. McAllister didn’t live in the deanery in 1950, where did he live?

Dean Ellis directed me to the archivist at St. John’s, Sue Miller. She, in turn, directed me to the archivist at Paulsen House, headquarters of the Episcopal Diocese. By this time everyone wanted to solve the mystery of where Dean McAllister lived. Archivists and journalists don’t like unanswered questions.

We did know Mom lived on 13th Street. Paulsen House archivist Gloria Lund said a volunteer at the diocese had lived on 13th for many years. “If the dean lived on this street, Willi Storey will know,” she said.

In fact she did. It turns out Storey has lived for the past 36 years in Dean McAllister’s former home. And last week I walked with my mother up the steep brick driveway.

“I used to shovel this driveway,” my 77-year-old mother said, shaking her head. “Can you imagine?”

We made our way up stone steps to the front porch, where Storey kindly welcomed two strangers into her home. Mom was delighted to find not much had changed in the past 57 years. She paused in the sitting room with its glass-fronted cabinets.

“There was an old mohair sofa in here that was so uncomfortable,” Mom recalled. “Your dad and I did a lot of courting in this room.”

She told us that the butler’s pantry had once been filled with silver. “I polished every piece.”

We stepped onto the back porch. The tree-lined backyard still offers a secluded place for conversation – or courting.

“When Tom could get a ride in from the base, we’d sit out here and visit after our dates,” Mom said.

As we walked through the house, her eyes sparkled, and her cheeks flushed. It was easy to imagine the girl she had been, caught up in the throes of new love.

I’d thought a surprise visit to her former home would make a fun Mother’s Day present. But as I watched her run her fingers along the newel post she’d dusted so many years ago – as I saw her point out pieces of her past – I realized that this time with her was even more of a gift for me. I got to see a glimpse of the young woman she’d been with her future stretched out before her. This house represented more than just a job to her. It was the reason she met my father, the love of her life.

When it was time to go, we thanked Storey for sharing her home with us.

“My husband’s been gone for 13 years,” my mother told her, “but I’m still so in love with him.”