By Jerri Donohue
PARMA-A week away from retirement, Ursuline Sister Mary Joachim Mullen hadn’t yet stripped her office walls at Parmadale Family Services Center.
Mayoral proclamations occupied space beside framed newspaper articles about her participation in the Cleveland Women’s Orchestra. She hadn’t packed the prized Elizabeth of Hungary Award she received from Catholic Charities or a needlepoint sampler from her niece: “Working for the Lord doesn’t pay much. . . but the retirement plan is out of this world.”
The squares composing a small quilt near the door illustrated Sister’s multi-faceted life: horseback riding instru ctor, Coast Guard enlistee during World War II, musician, Sister and teacher. A gift from residents of one of Parmadale’s cottages, she treasures this quilt for the hands that made it.
She was tutoring at St. Anthony’s School for Boys when it merged with Parmadale in 1975. Nicknamed “Sis,” everyone there also knows her as “Sister Jo.” Now 85, she is the last sister to leave.
Sister Jo served the facility in numerous capacities over the decades. For years she worked with the United Way Speakers Bureau. She also helped the in-take department, reading and evaluating referrals.
She recalled the Pioneering Parent Program as her greatest challenge.
“It was brand new, fresh and green,” she said of Parmadale’s first self-contained program. “I started with seven fellows, ended up with 17, all about 15 years old.”
Her rebellious teens used rough language and smoked.
“They could finish a cigarette in seven puffs if they had to hurry,” Sister Jo said.
But the boys’ previous lives failed to equip them with knowledge necessary for living in society.
“They had no ambition. Nobody ever encouraged them to do anything, to grow up, to be men,” Sister Jo said. She taught them to change their socks and underwear daily, to wash and dry dishes, to observe good table manners and other basics.
With persistence, the program succeeded. “They learned the value of lots of things,” Sister Jo said.
The group became close-knit, too. A young man who once called Sister Jo a “bogus nun,” later joined the Marines and sent her a photo of himself in uniform. She said he’d written “gorgeous stuff on the back.”
At one point Sister Jo made school visits for Parmadale’s boys and girls who attended local elementary and junior high schools.
“I loved being in the schools,” she said. “I loved meeting their teachers.” As a surrogate parent, she went to teacher conferences and meetings for individualized instruction plans. She updated cottage parents on students’ progress and discussed report cards—which she signed—with the children.
Despite the stress of working with troubled youngsters year after year, Sister Jo did not “burn out.”
“You couldn’t do it without prayer. You needed the strength God gave you,” she said. “This is God’s work. This is not a job. This is a mission.”
Sister Jo regrets that faith, the source of her own strength, plays no significant role in the lives of Parmadale residents today.
“I always prayed with the guys,” Sister Jo said of her early years at Parmadale. “Young people always came to Sunday liturgy. Now very few come on Saturday afternoons. They are not attending any religious service. That kills me.”
Sister Jo has observed a change in Parmadale residents, too.
“It’s different now. These are really hurting kids now,” she said. “They’ve all been traumatized some way or another.”
Meanwhile, new guidelines for interacting with minors limit physical contact. Sister Jo noted she can no longer put an encouraging hand on a child’s shoulder.
“Shaking hands is about it,” she said. While she understands the need for such restrictions, Sister Jo said it is “sad.”
“They need a human touch that doesn’t slap them, doesn’t hurt them,” she said. “I feel sorry for kids today.”
Sister Jo often wonders what became of previous Parmadale residents. She knows about those who have died, some as murder victims.
“I’m still praying for people who came through here, those who will have a hard time staying out of trouble,” she said.
One of her former charges used to telephone her collect from jail to complain. After hearing him out, she would respond with tough love, asking him how he contributed to his poor situation. Nonetheless, he continued to call, and Sister Jo continued to accept the charges.
Other memories make her smile. On her 80th birthday, the boys in one cottage seated her in a chair, then kneeling before her and brandishing fake flowers, they belted out “My Girl.”
Sister Jo plans an active retirement of volunteerism, but she realizes what she’ll be leaving at Parmadale.
“Good people work here,” she said. “I’m going to miss the people. I’m going to miss the kids.”
Donohue is a freelance writer.