Nadine’s Northeast follows the life of Nadine Burnett (née Pulliam), who was born in 1921 and spent most of her life in Northeast Kansas City, where she raised ten children amid the city’s rapid changes in the 20th century. Written by her granddaughter, Betsy Cochran, these historical fiction stories draw from Nadine’s lived experiences, local history, and a little family lore. Each installment stands alone while weaving into a larger portrait of Nadine’s past. For a deeper dive, visit betsycochran.substack.com, where you can subscribe for free or choose a paid plan for extended content.

June 8, 1921
Kansas City, MO

I was born just before dawn on a June morning in 1921, beneath a Kansas City sky already heavy with summer heat. No cigars, no champagne — only my father, Frank, drifting in and out like a ghost with whiskey on his breath, and a half-trained osteopathy student, Dr. Virgil Bishop, passed out cold on what we generously called a “divan” (though any respectable visitor would have called it a lost cause).

It was my eldest sister Marie, barely eighteen, who delivered me while my mother, Marjorie, lay exhausted on sweat-soaked sheets. That night Marie collapsed on the cedar chest—the same chest that would outlast my childhood chaos, and follow me for the rest of my life.

Our cramped two-bedroom apartment at 1010 Park Avenue in Kansas City was already bursting with my mother, part-time father, and six siblings: Marie, Edward, Catherine, Grace, Dorothy, and baby Regina, who was sleeping soundly in her dresser-drawer crib. That nap turned out to be the last gift she gave anyone for years.

I was my mother’s tenth living child, arriving just thirteen months after Regina. “Irish twins,” the doctor slurred when he briefly roused — until Dorothy, only six and sharp as a tack, corrected him: “Not unless it’s under twelve months.” Even at six, Dorothy wasn’t about to let bad math slide.

My mother was forty-four and exhausted, and the household already ran on borrowed energy. By the time I arrived, it was hardly a surprise anyone noticed. Looking back, it’s fair to say I was born into a house balanced somewhere between chaos and exhaustion.

“Mom looks strange,” Grace whispered, tugging at Marie’s sleeve. “Strange,” she repeated, “like a ghost.”

Marie froze, eyes narrowing as she took in their mother’s pallor. “I don’t know, Grace,” she murmured, exhaustion creeping into her voice. She had been up all night, coaching Mom through labor—just as she had the year before with Regina. “Maybe wake the doctor? I have to get to work.” She grabbed her handbag and headed for the door.

Not two seconds later, Edward, our no-good brother, burst in, chest heaving, eyes darting toward the windows.

“Where’s Frank? And who the hell is that?” he demanded, pointing at the unconscious doctor.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, where’d that baby come from?” His finger jabbed toward me, a tiny bundle on our mother’s chest. Then, realizing the blasphemy, he promptly crossed himself for good measure.

Just then, Dorothy piped up from the doorway, voice trembling: “Mom’s shaking.”

That’s when everything erupted. Grace, all of twelve but already bossy enough to run the household, ordered Dorothy to sprint for St. Aloysius, her skirt flying as she bolted down the block. Edward, meanwhile — resident Houdini — made his exit through the bathroom window, shimmying down the rusted fire escape like he’d practiced it. Grace leaned out the window just in time to watch him vanish toward Olive Street in rags that confirmed what everyone suspected: he’d been living under the viaduct for weeks.

When the Sisters of Charity arrived, they brought order with them. Sister Bernadette barked for the parish wagon, Sister Margaret fetched clean linens, and Sister Agnes worked briskly, her rosary clacking like a metronome. Neighbors peeked from their doorways as our mother, Marjorie, was carried out, wrapped in makeshift sheets and lifted into Brother Conway’s horse-drawn cart bound for St. Mary’s Hospital.

Inside, Sister Cecilia took me in her arms, soft-voiced and Irish-lilted, counting my fingers and toes. “What’s this child named?” she asked.

“Delores!” Dorothy shouted, desperate to claim the name for me.

“No,” Grace said firmly, smoothing my blanket with authority that belied her years. “This is Nadine.”

…

If you’ve written a story or a poem, or if you’ve created a piece of artwork or a comic that you’d like to see published in the Northeast News, email us at NortheastBuzz@gmail.com to share it with us! Look for more historical fiction and other creative works by Betsy Cochran, Jerry Potocnik and others in upcoming issues of Northeast News!