A Might-Have-Been

                                                          

 Recently I came across an article on Inc.com that provided the five top responses to the question, what do people regret as they approach the end of their lives?

The query came up with many of the expected answers such as marital infidelities, career paths not chosen, etc... These were some of the big heart-wrenching mistakes that one should already know to avoid (although given our human frailty we might fall victim to them anyway).  Yet answer after answer revealed that many of the missteps that caused them to look back on with sadness were relatively small and easy to avoid.

While reading the top five answers I began to ask, if they are so easy to avoid why did I make some of these same missteps? And why is it that all of a sudden I hear Frank Sinatra singing;

Regrets, I've had a few
But then again, too few to mention
I did what I had to do and saw it through without exemption
I planned each charted course, each careful step along the byway
And more, much more than this, I did it my way

Well, I don’t know about you Frank, but I’ve had more than a few and looking back I can say that doing it my way created some of my regrets. It seems that whenever I put myself ahead of God or whatever higher power one believes in is when I do something which I will later regret.

I feel it a disservice to the reader if I only provide the five items from this list without dispensing with some type of solution or antidote to the act that causes one to have regrets. But is there really such a thing or are we predestined to have life’s experiences (good and bad) as our teachers? Has someone compiled a How to Avoid Regrets book? Since the article provided little in the form of wisdom I went searching and found that some if not all of the antidotes I was looking for weren’t in one book, although the Bible does come close, but in a series of children’s books.

- Trying too hard to please others made the top of the list and it came from hospice nurses who had plenty of opportunities of learning from the dying. The habit of people pleasing is debilitating. People pleasers have a hard time with a simple two letter word – they cannot seem to say NO.

Sophocles, from ancient Greek fame, had it right when he said, “If you were to offer a thirsty man all wisdom, you would not please him more than if you gave him a drink.”

The antidote comes from Dr. Seuss, The Cat in the Hat; “Be who you are and say what you feel, because those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.”

- Too much pointless worry was next on the list. This is my personal number one regret. Heck, just the other day I was on the phone with my oldest son planning a trip to go and visit him when he reminded me of how much I worry about the littlest thing.

“I wish I hadn’t spent so much time of my life worrying.” This answer was validated by the Cornell Legacy Project which had 1200 elders reflect on their lives. Years ago I read a book called “Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff …. And it’s all small stuff.” I truly wish I could say that I got rid of all my small stuff. There is some small stuff that I still need to learn to let go of.

The antidote from Dr. Seuss; “If things start happening don’t worry, don’t stew. Just go right along and you’ll start happening too.”

The third item was Focusing too much on acquiring stuff. The discovery that happiness does not come from material things was often realized too late in life. Sometimes this stuff causes us too much pointless worry. Did you know that the average American home contains 300,000 items? (LA Times)

That the average size of the American home has tripled in size over the past 50 years. (NPR)

And still, 1 out of every 10 Americans rent offsite storage – the fastest growing segment of the commercial real estate industry over the past four decades (NY Times Magazine)

The antidote is from J.R.R. Tolkien, The Hobbit: “If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.”

Fourth was not taking care of your physical health. Poor lifestyle choices often haunt people later in life. Many would now choose to develop habits of regular exercise. One respondent wrote; “If I could offer you one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it.” 

Antidote – from Dr. Seuss. “Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”

- Not traveling enough is the last on this list. Many agreed that they should have paid more attention to their travel bucket list early in life. Travel is often put off because of children or work etc. In another study I found some collective advice from elders that said, “Travel is so rewarding that it should take precedence over the things younger people spend money on.”

Antidote - From Dr. Seuss, Oh the Places You’ll Go; “You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose. You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And you are the one who’ll decide where to go.”

Once again the song returns

Yes, there were times, I'm sure you knew
When I bit off more than I could chew
But through it all, when there was doubt
I ate it up and spit it out
I faced it all and I stood tall and did it my way

I look back at my life and I imagine that like everyone else have made some poor choices. They were my choices and can take solace in the fact that as Yogi Berra wittingly said, “When you come to a fork in the road – take it.” The regret would come when one couldn’t decide and turned back.

I’ll end with the last antidote from Arthur Ransome’s We Didn’t Mean to Go to Sea; “Grab a chance and you won’t be sorry for a might-have-been.”

Gaeta Visit 2016

It was nice to end the our Italy trip by spending 3 nights in Gaeta I just wish the stay there  had been a little longer (at least five days). Thankfully I was able to see most of my cousins - the only exception was Anita. In between we were able to fit in a visit to the Montagna Spaccata and a trip to San Felice Circeo. The thing we didn't do was go for a swim or spend some time at Serapo Beach. We did have a view of it from our balcony. It was good to have Franca, Sandra, Franco, e Francesco come to visit at the hotel. Unfortunately even though more are able to meet together some still hold grudges. This is the nasty legacy that was passed down from prior generations. You would think that all of us would have learned our lessons from all the turbulence that has preceded us.

I always had longed for the day when these long standing grudges would be dropped so that we could all to sit at the same table but I see that it's still going to take time. But time is fleeting and I think of my cousin Mimino who is no longer with us. The only solace from my visit was that it had brought a few more together. It's so difficult for the one visiting especially in having only a limited time to visit each one individually.

I finally ended the rift between the Viola's and the Dell'Anno's by visiting my aunt Anna. I had some trepidation a as to how I would be accepted and I was overwhelmed by the warmth I felt especially from Maria Libera, my newly found cousin. I now think that my Dad is finally resting in peace - I know this is something he would have wanted. Thanks for being present in spirit Dad.

It surely sounded that your sister really liked you. She thought so much of you that she named her son after you, Apostolo. She was able to give me a glimpse into your character and personality. You would have been a good role model for me. I hope I was able to fill a small portion of your shoes.

Everything's Out of Whack

The Sunday Boston Globe has a story about seven figure sales in Dorchester, Fenway, Eastie and Somerville (click on link below).

http://www.boston.com/news/local
/articles/2005/09/


I’ll make sure to raise a toast to this grand accomplishment as I have dinner in Roslindale today. I see Boston quickly becoming a city of the Haves and the Have Nots – nothing in between. The once called middle class is going the way of the Nash Rambler and the Corvair – becoming extinct.

My neighborhood of so called working stiffs recently saw a single family house sell for half a million and I thought that was a lot. Ten years ago these houses were selling for one fifth the price. Twenty-five years ago, you could buy one for the same price that it costs to buy a car today.

Even though some real estate experts are predicting a slowdown, I continue to see the price wheel spinning, round and round she goes where she’ll stop no one knows. It’s gotten so crazy that people are building on any little speck of land.

Senator Edwards talked about how we live in two Americas – the rich and the poor. Affordable housing is for all intents and purpose disappeared from the Boston Realty market. People that gamble and overspend are finding that they’ll soon join the growing ranks of people who are filing for bankruptcy. Nearly 1.6 million individual bankruptcy petitions were filed in 2003, 99% higher than ten years earlier, a figure that equals to 1 out of 74 households in America. Forty percent of adults say that they are living beyond their means.

What’s going to happen this winter, especially if we have a long cold snap? How many people are going to have to do without?

Remembering Mamma

"Ma, ma, ma," I called
You didn't respond
I touched searching for a pulse
I didn't feel one

You took no last gasp
There was no visible sign
I was caught totally by surprise
You looked so at peace
Getting the best rest you'd had
in over two years

The aides had done such a wonderful job
of taking care of you that last day
It was almost as if they knew that today
you would leave for that final trip that we all will make
Made you look really good
Amidst all your suffering and pain
Once again you looked like a Rose
Blooming through the clouds of morphine
Which helped you get through those last hours

It seems like only yesterday, but time does fly
It's now been two years
And as you predicted on those times we spat
That I would one day miss you
You were oh so right, Ma
That one day came oh so soon.
I now pray for the repose of your soul

Right, Wrong - Wrong, Right

What used to be called self-indulgence was now called self-fulfillment. What was once called moral irresponsibility was now considered freedom to find oneself. What was once considered disgusting and obscene was now tolerated—and even taught in schools as “alternate lifestyles.” Temporary fixes. Feel-good religion. Discipline was considered repression; depravity, creative self-expression; murder, a matter of choice; and adultery, sex between consenting adults. What was wrong was called right, and what was right was called wrong! ~ Francine Rivers And the Shofar Blew

The Shofar is an instrument made from the horn of a ram or other kosher animal. It was used in ancient Israel to announce the New Moon (Rosh Chodesh) and call people together. It is also blown on Rosh Hashanah, marking the beginning of the New Year, signifying both need to wake up to the call to repentance.The curve in the horn mirrors the contrition of the one who repents.

According to Leo Rosten, "The bend in the shofar is supposed to represent  how a human heart, in true repentance, bends before the Lord. The ram's horn serves to remind the pious how Abraham, offering his son Isaac in sacrifice, was reprieved when God decided that Abraham could sacrifice a ram instead. The man who blows the shofar is required to be of blameless character and conspicuous devotion; he must blow blasts of different timbre, some deep, some high, some quavering."

Veni Vidi Vinci

It was nice to spend a few days in Gaeta.

On my mom's side I came, I saw and I conquered the rift that existed between the Dell'Annos and the Violas. Even though I am a Viola, I had been raised by Dell'Annos. My dad died two months before I was bornand I was innocently caught in the rift between the two families. I've now heard both sides of the story and more so and I don't hold any animosity toward anyone. I have one regret and that is that I should have done this year's ago. I hold in my possession the only existing picture of my dad - the one in his military uniform.

I felt such warmth in meeting my cousin, Maria Libera, who graciously came to pick me up at Hotel Serapo. She seems to be a very caring person. She told me she had been searching for me and couldn't find me because she was looking for someone named Fausto - That was originally going to be my name but my mom didn't like it so she named me Apostolo after my dad. On the ride over I was glad to hear Maria tell me how anxious her mother to see me.

She lives alone in a nice apartment building. My encounter with her was wonderful. She looked at me and seemed to be moved. She said that I was tall like my dad. We embraced and she held my hands as she looked at my face. She invited me in and started to talk. We sat in what appeared to be a dining room - the place looked very well kept. She had a gash on her leg from a recent fall. Without any prodding she somehow felt to tell her side of the story of how the rift started. It appears that when my dad died his brother offered to marry my mom but it didn't happen . She seemed to think that zio Paolo was somehow involved. She also mention the family of zio Peppino - in fact she seemed to know a little bit about all the families on my mom's side.

She told me how she liked my dad who was one of 8 children. It sounded as if she had the same relationship as my mom had with Luigi, her younger brother. She corroborated the story of how my dad died - the only additional piece of info I picked up was where dad pulled up the mine that exploded in his net-I always thought it was on the near side of Serapo beach but in actuality it was on the far side. She also mentioned that dad was a hard worker and was very good with finances in fact she mentioned that if he lived he would have been wealthy. He was quiet, didn't like trouble and always tried to make peace. He wasn't a good dancer like his brothers. All in all it was a very nice visit of about an hour's length. I was offered some pastry and something to drink. Two other ladies from the families came, one has relatives in Somerville (Albano) and will be going there for two months. this summer.

My aunt said she wanted me over for a meal where she would make a tiella, one stuffed with octopus.. I told her next time. I told her to stay well as I plan on coming back again.

Hope - A Poem

The following poem was written by Natalie Fuller in December 2013. This was a period of repeated hospitalizations when she first considered suicide to escape psychosis. Fuller killed herself in March, just before her 29th birthday.

Hope

There is a little piece of glitter following me around

I see it on the carpet and I see it on the ground

that's been following me for quite some time

guess I never noticed it before

But I know what it means,that little glitter on the floor

It's hope.

It's not coincidence, nope, it's hope.

And I know that I've failed you

yeah I know I've been untrue

but that glitter on the floor

tells me it doesn't matter any more

Cuz' no matter how many times I fail

I've got hope.

This time, I'm gonna be better

and I know there's stormy weather

Please believe in me

I will solve this mystery

and I will show you

to have hope.

It's not coincidence, nope, it's hope.

Someday that glitter will shine

Gonna write my rhyme until the time.

My heart's beatin' outta my chest

I wanna rest but that don't impress

I gotta fight this urge

gotta get the electricity surge

I know I can do it

Beat my demons

appreciate the seasons.

I hope, hope, hope I can to it too

make all my wildest dreams come true. 

Get Permission

After being here for seven months and finally feeling that I am in stable place I decided to go and register at a church that is a few miles from my present living abode. I had made this decision, this choice of places of worship, after much thought and visits to varying churches in the surrounding area. It was at this church where we, Nancy and I, were chosen or asked on two separate occasions if we would brig up the offertory gifts. The other time it happened was at St Eleanor's Church near Skippack on the day that I proposed to Nancy.

To me these three separate invites were taken as an affirmation from God who knows how frustrated Nancy and I have gotten at times with the people who have been put in charge of various factions of the church.

So today as the clouds lifted and the sun shined after a few days of inclement weather I embarked on a journey that would hopefully lead to a more pastoral experience all around. As school children played at a distance behind a coned off area of the parking lot I found a sign directing me to the Parish Office. As I made my way through the front set of doors, I soon noticed a sign that said "Ring the buzzer." The door to the office was locked. As I pushed the long skinny button to the right of the door I didn't hear any sound leading me to think that it may have not worked. Through the glass I could see a rather stocky lady get up and come out of an inner office and head toward the door. She looked at me suspiciously. I had already formulated in my head what I wanted to ask her. She opened the door about a third of the way. I was never welcomed in. The short conversation took place between that slightly opened door. I started to feel like that unwelcomed and pesky salesman.

I told the lady that I would like to register at that church and wanted to know who to see. She asked what street I lived on. It didn't appear to be familiar to her. She asked if it was beyond Church Street and I said that I thought so. With that she dismissed me saying I needed to get a permission letter from St. Rose of Lima Church. I must of had a quizzical look on my face as she repeated the same thing in a slightly different way inferring that I either register at St. Rose of Lima or that I get a a letter from them.

I could have asked a number of questions but I was taken aback by the coldness of the person. I guess my geographical location binds me to a specific church but do they own me?

As I drove away I started to miss the place that welcomed me in Boston a number of years ago.  

Just Want Some Air For My Tires

I don’t want to live in the past but after my running around trying to find a gas station where I could get air for my tires I couldn’t help but think of the so-called progress we made. I don’t know what we do in this country anymore as many of the manufacturing jobs have left to find a home overseas. Supposedly we are a country that is geared in service related jobs. Really?

Look at what’s happened to the service stations. There is no more service provided – not in my state that is. Many gas stations have become self-service. You do everything yourself and you pay more. I wonder who reaped the benefits from the elimination of gas station attendant jobs?

I’m aging myself but I remember when these places would give you free stuff when you filled up your tank and they did it for you. I remember collecting a set of glasses from the fill ups and you also got free road maps, calendars, key chains, and service with a smile – checking your oil and water, washing your windshields and getting green stamps. This was done when gas was 18 cents a gallon.

Today nothing is free. Most places even charge for the air for the tires.

I don’t know what happened but I visited five different gas stations this afternoon and every one of them had an out of order sign on the machine where it now costs  $1.50 for about three minutes of air. I finally gave up as I spent time and gas driving around to find a place where I could get air.

These places should no longer be called ‘service’ stations.

I just hope that what I experienced is just a local thing because if it isn’t this could be just another sign of where this country is going.

Feeling Tired of Winter

Winter has yet to officially begin by calendar standard and I'm already starting to feel tired of it. I guess I'm sort of entitled to feel this way after having lived in the Boston area for 58 yrs. 

This morning I woke up to 0 degree weather and a forecast of 3-6 inches of snow on the way. Walking is trecharous in many spots as the snow fall from the other day has turned into ice. Yesterday's sun did nothing to melt it. Whatever little was being melted had soon turned to a glaze of ice.

I'm not looking for hot weather but something that I was used to in Gaeta, my birthplace and place of residence for the first 8 yrs. of my life. Cold there is high 30's low 40's and snow is a rarity

Walden Pond

The air is clean and autumnally crisp

The rays of the sun balmily kiss

All that I dare leave exposed

To that undulating wind that whispers hiss.

I sit at the edge of this pristine pond

That was made famous by a man named Thoreau
Feeling like a transcendentalist
Thinking of his Concordian neighbor, one Ralph Waldo.

God Is Present In the Most Unexpected Places

As I was about to start the first of two Communion Services in the prison chapel this past Sunday, and going through the routine of asking for volunteers to help with the two readings and Psalm, I sensed an underlying friction between a few inmates who were sitting at opposite sides of the room; even Sister sensed it as she made a comment in trying to diffuse the tension as she was headed out.

After the service was over and the men were leaving to go back to their cells I stopped one the men who I sensed was still upset and engaged him in conversation. He told me how angry he felt about some of the people there. The more he tried to do the right thing the more he was being ostracized by the others. What happened in the chapel was only a little snippet of what goes on daily he told me. He was so angry that he did not feel worthy to receive Communion and chose to use that time to stay seated and ask for God's forgiveness. He knew it was wrong to be angry but did his best to control it. It appeared from my vantage point of that short 5 - 10 minute conversation that he was doing all he could and there was little I could add other than listen. After our conversation I could feel a sense of release or relief and he thanked me for listening - he knew that he needed to vent and get that out of his system before he returned to the rest of the prison population.

Later that day I read a story written by Philip Yancey in Finding God in Unexpected Places, about a young woman who after having worked for change in apartheid in So. Africa, decided to tackle the most violent prison, one where Nelson Mandela had spent several years.

Tattoo-covered gang members controlled the prison while the authorities looked the other way letting them beat and kill each other. Each day she would go into the bowels of the prison bringing the simple message of forgiveness and reconciliation. She eventually earned their trust and got them to open up about the details of their horrific childhoods. The year before she began her visits, the prison had recorded 279 acts of violence; the next year there were two.

When asked by a journalist for the specifics on what had happened to transform that prison she said, "God was already present in the prison. She just had to make him visible."

What a beautiful statement. As I thought about what I would like to achieve in prison ministry all I can strive for in the short time I spend there is as this young woman said, "Just to make God visible as He is already there."

 

A Coincidence or An Answered Prayer

When I talk to some about the things that happened and continue to happen in my life as a result of prayer they have a hard time believing and say that these events are just a coincidence or a happenstance or even luck. The latest answered prayer came about this past weekend. Shortly after my mom passed away (three weeks tomorrow) I prayed to God to direct me to where or how He wanted me to spend the free time that I now had which I used to spend with my mom. I felt confident, as He has come through on numerous times before not only for me but even when I prayed for others, that I would soon get this direction.

Last week I was planning on visiting the independent/assisted living facility where I worked at for five years and had to leave three years ago because of health issues. I figured I would offer to volunteer some of my time to help the elderly there with whatever it was they needed however other things came up so my plans were never completed.

Now prior to my mom being placed under hospice care I had signed up for a retreat for the weekend of 9/13 to 9/16 in a place I had never been to. All I knew about the place is that it was run by friars and that I had used their spiritual cards in the past. Graymoor is about a 31/2 hr. drive from Boston and I had gotten used to taking long trips to visit a dear friend over the past year. Once mom's health started to decline I figured I would never be able to go to the retreat never anticipating that she would go so soon.

I started out early on the afternoon of Friday the 13th, allowing myself plenty of time to be there by the 6pm check-in time. The number 13 is often thought of by some to be an unlucky number. For me it has been the opposite. I took solace in that, September 13, was the feast day of St. John Chrysostom, a place where I called my home of worship when my sons were much younger. Now that I think of it all three received the sacraments of Baptism, Holy Communion and Confirmation at that church.

One might say that early on in the trip I had the misfortune of blowing out my second GPS in a year. I have gotten so used to these devices that I almost feel that I can't travel without them. As I started to get upset and worried I stopped and told God that if He wanted me to get to the destination in NY, He would have to guide me there.

I arrived in this beautiful mountainous area 30 minutes early. I sat in my car checking my e-mails. I was surprised to see an e-mail from a woman I hadn't heard of in about two years with the subject being 'Temporary Work.'

I surprisingly read the following;

"Hi Lino,

I hope this finds you and your family healthy and feeling well.  I am writing to see if you might be interested in a few months of temporary work.  Our driver is having some surgery at the beginning of November and we expect him to be out of commission until January.  He currently drives three days/week, but we will be flexible with regard to schedule.  If you are not interested or able, that is fine.  I just thought I would ask, as it would be a thrill for some of our residents to see you again!  And it would certainly help.  Let me know your thoughts.  Thanks and be well."

I sat in my car with a wave of emotions and I had to read it again to make sure that the long drive hadn't played tricks on my mind. I could see God peeking out from behind the tree in front of me winking and smiling. The retreat had yet to start and I already felt so blessed and thanked Him. It was almost as if He was saying to me, "OK, wise guy, you asked for it? Well here it is. What are you going to do?"

Here I was earlier in the week making plans to go there and never made it and now He brings the place to me. Wow! How could I say no?

Her message was sent at 5:10pm. I responded at 5:42pm saying that I would get back to her on Monday.

As I glanced into the rear view mirror I noticed three women carrying their luggage enter the front door. I was puzzled. Wasn't this a men's retreat? Maybe they are people who are helping out I thought. When I entered I found that those women were checking in for the retreat I was going to. We were all assigned rooms on the sixth floor and given a schedule for the next three days.

I checked in, unpacked and headed for the lounge where there was a buffet prior to that evening's workshop. The place was packed and as I was getting some food one of the ladies that checked in ahead of me said that they had a seat at their table. I soon found out that there were three different retreats going on that weekend.

I had a name tag on like everyone else but my name causes people to look in a strange way and to make matters worse I didn't do a good job of writing the 'o' at the end of my name - to some it looked liked a 'd' so a few called me Lind. Most of the people seemed to be from the New York area except for the man next to me who was from Philadelphia. Once he saw my name he said, "Hey you're in room 613." He was pointing out that 6/13 is synonymous with St. Anthony.  I had not made the connection until he reminded me that 613, or June 13, is the feast day of St. Anthony of Padua. Of course I knew that as I'm fairly active at St. Anthony's Shrine in Boston.

There's the number 13 again and I felt even more blessed. Room 613 on 9/13/13.

The next day, during the sharing phase of one of the group exercises, I found that there were at least three other people who like me had recently lost their mom. They all felt like they were directed to this place. Saturday evening and Sunday morning for some was very emotional and there was a such a feeling of compassion in our room. I even had a young lady from the Appalachian mountain group bring me a pair of ear plugs as I had a difficult time sleeping because room 613 was opposite the men's lavatories and showers. We met on Saturday morning as we were a handful of people who got up to see the sunrise from the mountain top.

This morning, as promised, I did e-mail the Executive Director who offered the temporary job and said that I would be glad to help them out. I asked that I have Wednesdays free as I have a volunteer commitment on that day each week. How could I say no to God?

She responded;

I am jumping up and down I am so excited! 

Thank YOU for being willing to help out!

Wednesday is not a problem.

Thank you, thank you, thank you!

 

I was the one that was saying "Thank You" all week-end long.

 

Coincidence - No. Answered prayer - Yes.

From "The Groucho Letters"

The following are snippets from the book, "The Groucho Letters"

"In honor of your fifty years with the railroad I present you with these ties." ~ Goodman Ace

"I am also working on a long fly for short-armed men's trousers."

"There is a town so dull up here the tide went out one day and never came back in"

"The funny story turned out to be one about the man who was saying grace in a low voice - somebody at the table said, 'I can't hear you.' The man said, 'I wasn't talking to you." ~ Fred Allen

"The hour draws late and my domestics are champing at the bit. They have chilled the rare wines, warmed the ambrosia and I can only tell you that another indescribable evening awaits me."

Written to Earl Wilson on 1/17/62 was prophetic -

"The last days of the newspapers seem to be rushing toward us with frightening speed."

Advice to Phil Silvers -

"So look smart, be smart, and remember .... in Union there is alimony."

This creed Death uses for his text:
"No one is better than the next;"
So Death is, quite ironically
The only true democracy.

Becoming Who We Aready Are

Listening to various inspirational speakers I am struck by the following two statements

“Becoming the best version of ourselves” - Matthew Kelly

“Becoming who we already are and all that we truly are” - Richard Rohr

The more I think of them I can see that they are basically driving at the same thing and that is that God created us as said that it is “good.” In essence in our creation we had everything we needed and were good but as time went on something may have changed; as we grew and got older we probably started to acquire baggage along the way and changed that good not necessarily to bad but to something that was less than God intended us to be.

So becoming the ‘best version of ourselves,” and “all that we truly are,” requires that we change. This change will probable take form in an unlearning process for some of the things that we have learned and have caused us to not be all that we truly are. We need to let go of the baggage that’s weighing us down. If you are like me that letting go process is not just a one time shot it may be a continuous process.

Fr. Rohr equates to a turning around not just once but until it becomes a way of life. He reminds us of what the old Shakers used to sing and dance to “. . . To turn, turn / will be our delight, / ’Till by turning, turning / we come round right.”  

An elderly man who I’ll call Mr. P told me a story of a young man who came knocking at his door calling on one of his sons. Mr. P answered the knock and opened the door. The young man proceeded to go right in and started to call for his son. Mr. P stopped him and told him to turn around and to go back out the door and start again. As he did he instructed him that this time when he answered the door he was to address him as Mr. P and that before he entered he was to take off his hat. The young man at first looked at him as if he had two heads but he did as he was told.

You may think that Mr. P was an old fuddy duddy but he was trying to correct this young man, to turn him around and teach or remind him to have some respect. We may not like to be told to turn around but think twice about the advice given to you because one doesn’t always see the little baggage that’s being picked up along the way. It tends to accumulate and weigh us down.

Saturday on Castle Island

Saturday, June 15, 2013

Taking in the beauty of a sunny Saturday in Boston. I'm perched at the base of Ft. Independence which is on Castle Island, South Boston and I have a beautiful view of the inner harbor. A passerby reminds me that place is known to the locals as the "Irish Riviera," given that the area was once inhabited by a preponderance of people of Irish descent. 

At a distant I can see Logan International Airport. The sea is an almost teal blue color with soft rippling waves caused by a light westerly breeze. Nearby two dragon flies are darting in somewhat erratic geometric patterns.

A catamaran skims on the water making it's way back to port and as it does it displaces water causing for bigger waves which are felt by the fishermen who are fishing from the pier. From the southeast a plane is coming into view making its landing descent. I can now hear the engines roar as it slows down on the runway.

A dozen sailboats are within view as it seems a perfect day for sailing. People with children and dogs make for a continuous stream of traffic walking on the various paths that go around the fort and over a span of 30 minutes you can hear one of the many different languages.

Motor boats of various types are seen crisscrossing each other in the water,

The clip clop sound of flip flops are heard beating a cadenced rhythm.

An expanse of rolling lawn lies in front of me and at a distance someone is flying a

kite. I feel the hot rays of the sun caress my bare skin as I'm topless and wearing shorts.

A steady stream of planes continue to approach as if someone is gently dropping them from the sky.

The gentle breeze is soothing and drying my skin which has begun to perspire from being under a sun that has absolutely no competition for space in a cloudless sky. An occasional sea gull replaces the sight of a momentary plane less sky.

I can hear the chatter of the passing couples who are walking the spacious area.

I savor and enjoy each of these moments that follow one another without cease.

My Three Sons

As Father's Day approaches I have mixed emotions; thinking of my dad who I never met since he died 2 months before I was born and my own adventure into fatherhood.
This year unlike the past ones I am remembering the gift that God gave to me - oh there were trying moments when I didn't think they were gifts - in my three sons. I wish I could say that our lives mirrored the one of the TV show that ran from 1960 to 1972 named My Three Sons. That was a house that was headed by a widowed father, Steve Douglas and I could somehow relate to this as I had to bring up my three sons for those trying teen-age years due to their mom's mental illness. The father figure on that show had the help of "Bub," the boy's live-in maternal grandfather, who five years later would be replaced by his brother, the boy's uncle, Charley.

I had no one living with me to help out with the boys, but I did have family members pitch in at different times with cooking or just taking the boys off my hands for a day or night. My version of Chip, Robbie, and Mike were Gerry, Lee and Dan. It's been a long time since I've watched an episode from My Three Sons but to my recollection the similarities other than some of the things boys get into stop at the makeup of the family of a father and three boys. Their dad seemed to have an executive job and they seemed to live in an affluent or fairly affluent area where I was working my way up from a Postal clerk to Supervisor and eventually a managerial position. We lived in a blue-collar neighborhood of Boston where drugs and crime were a daily slice of life.

My sons were good as they were given a solid foundation from the day they were born and did their best under the circumstances as they grew older. I have often gone back and relived some of the dark moments but today as I was scanning some photos I can see how truly gifted and thankful I am for them.

As I look at this picture of Gerry and Lee, I am reminded of the fierce sibling rivalry that existed between the two. As the first child, Gerry was used to getting all the attention and was ok for awhile when Lee was born. He was very protective of his baby brother. As Lee got older he figured out a way to get more attention and that was at being better than Gerry in many aspects.


They look so innocent here but I remember moments when they would tangle with each other especially when they were competing. Gerry wanted to be the responsible older brother but at times he wasn't allowed to. He could get very stubborn and start to think of ways to get under your skin. This picture on the right will give an indication just by body position of how he would get (hands positioned on hips, eyes looking down, and the position of his upper lip over the bottom).

Four and half years after Gerry was born we were blessed with the arrival of Daniel (Dan). Gerry now shifted his focus on a new little brother. Parenting seemed to be easier when Dan came along as the apprehension that was there for the first all but disappeared with the third. Everyone was more relaxed and Danny benefited from this environment. He now had two older brothers to dawdle over him.

This picture reminded me of how responsible and caring Gerry was when he was young. Here he is teaching his little brother to hit a ball. Dan was like a piece of putty, so easy to manipulate and teach, as he was much calmer and relaxed than the older two. I can almost hear Gerry saying, "OK Dan, keep your eye on the ball," as he carefully tosses it underhand. These two guys would years later be at opposite ends of the spectrum. I got to relive my own version of the parable of the Prodigal Son with these two guys as substitutes (Gerry was the lost sheep while Dan was the good do-bee son).

What I think I'm most thankful for this year is in seeing the harmony that was there early on in their childhood slowly return; slowly seeing the evolving of my oldest as being the responsible one and leading the other two; seeing the hard heart of Gerry soften yet being stern and fair in his dealing with his brothers.

I'm reminded of a positive talk I had with Gerry years ago when in the midst of some of his most trying moments I told him that someday he would achieve something good.

I am so thankful and proud of my three sons. I'm proud to be introduced as Gerry's or Lee's or Danny's father and look forward to one day, the Lord willing, to be a grandfather to one of their children. God gave me the perfect Father's Day gift in each of these three - I thank Him for blessing me thrice.

Caught With My Pants Down

For one who seldom remembers his dreams I was awakened early Saturday morning by an event from a dream. It all started innocently. I was to meet some friends for dinner in Boston. I did not want to drive in town simply because I didn't want to pay the exorbitant rates they charge for parking. I looked for a place to park that would be near to the subway stop. I found a parking lot near a small office building and lo and behold there was neither an attendant nor an automatic gate where one needs a card in order to enter. Since it was late in the day on a Friday when many leave early to get a jump on a long weekend I noticed that there were plenty of spots available and I figured they wouldn't mind since I wasn't taking any one's spot even though there were signs warning about unauthorized parking. 

As I entered the lot I noticed what seemed to be a custodial type off at a distance looking at me and my car very inquisitively. Frankly, I was expecting to be told at any moment that I wasn't allowed to park there. But since that never materialized I continued to search and found a spot for my car. I must say that I was racked with the guilt feeling that one gets when you do something wrong. I tried to look cool, calm and collected as if I belonged there, but I continued to feel  a set eyes o following me. The next challenge was how was I going to leave that parking lot without entering the building. I couldn't go out from where I came in as it would be too obvious to the man looking that I didn't work there and had no business parking there. I got this funny feeling that he had called someone to verify my license plate number and was waiting for a response before he came out. I then noticed that there was an exit to an adjacent street behind the building and decided to go out that way where he couldn't see me anymore.

As I left and disappeared from that man's view, I got this gnawing feeling inside that I may return to find that my car had been towed. Seeing it was getting late to find an alternate place I said, "What the heck, I'll deal with the consequences later on."

In my dream I didn't recall anything about the dinner. The next scene opened up with my return. I was carrying two large bags and had just gotten off the train. What happened between the train station and the lot where I left my car or should I say that I was still hoping that it was there is a mystery. All I know is that for some strange reason I found myself with a shirt on however I had no pants and was carrying my underwear in my hand. As I entered the parking lot I breathed a sigh of relief at seeing my car parked where I left it. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed someone walking towards me. I didn't know what to do as I was naked from the waist down still not knowing how  or what caused me to be in that predicament. I thought of stopping to put my underwear on but could not see how to do this without exposing myself. My reaction was to cover the front of me by strategically using those two bags as a shield - at least for my manhood. Thankfully the man passed without incident; whether he noticed my bare ass is another story, but I wasn't too concerned about my backside. I continued walking to my car thinking once I got inside I could take care of the problem with the underwear.

Just as I got about ten feet from my car I heard, "There he is."
"Oh, crap!," I mumbled to myself as I froze with shame. It was the man who had spotted me earlier and this time there was a woman with him.

The dream ended with me standing there in a quandary saying, "What do I do now?"

I had been exposed. I got caught with my pants down.

A Time To Transplant

As I was reading the letter that described Nancy's Garden I remembered that in the trunk of my car was a pot and some soil that I was taking over to my mom's apartment. You see the house plant that I gave her on Mother's Day had grown too big for the original pot and needed to be transplanted into a larger and roomier one.

Transplanting a plant from one pot to another is not hard and unless you are a real klutz it's hard to do any damage to it. When one transplants plants that are growing in the dirt outdoors you must be careful that you do not do damage to the roots and that you also provide plenty of room for the roots to grow in it's new home.

As I was thinking of transplanting do's and don'ts's I was reminded of the process I'm going through as I get ready for a transplantation of me. I had tried to survive in conditions that weren't beneficial for proper growth. Instead of being nurtured I had been given too much manure which not only burned the leaves but almost killed the root system. I was crying to grow and produce what I thought I could given the proper nurturing but I had almost given up at finding the gardener who was willing to get a little dirt on her hands.

So now with God's help I see someone who might be willing to give me a chance to grow in her garden - so I prepare for a transplant. This all has to happen in its proper time - too soon or too late and it may mean that this plant will not take root properly and possibly die ("a time to plant and a time to uproot." Ecclesiastes 3:2)

The National Gardening Bureau picked violas as their flower of the year for 2007. Violas and pansies are such relied upon stalwarts that many gardeners take them for granted and think they know everything there is to know about them. True, violas are easy care plants. But in the gardening world, nothing stands still. Newer varieties of violas are being introduced with bolder colors and larger flowers that bloom longer. Even better, they exhibit better heat and cold tolerance than the remarkably hardy varieties where familiar with.

Viola is the name of a genus containing about 500 different species. Most of the violas cultivated in gardens are grown as annuals or short-lived perennials. However, many will self-seed and give you years of delight.

A Memorial Day Remembrance

What a wonderful way to celebrated Memorial Day!
This story demonstrates the humanitarian side of our military personnel. It was printed in True Confessions and Reader's Digest (May 1953) - 60 years ago.

 

The Sergeant Didn't Go Home

 

 

The railroad station at Seoul is modern, but its roof and walls and floors look like half-restored ruins. To the homeless, hungry children of war, aged and wizened beyond their year, the vast, echoing barn is shelter. They cower in their rags in corners and under stairways, huddle against the walls.

 

One day last June Sgt. Werner Krenzer and a batch of GIs new in Korea trooped through the station. Some of the children crept forward, their skeletal hands outstretched. The soldiers fumbled in their pockets and kits and passed out what they had - candy and gum and leftover sandwiches. Sergeant Krenzer approached one child, holding out his last chocolate bar. The waif backed away. "Here," Krenzer said. "Come on, take it."

 

A strange expression crossed the child's face - fear, yearning and something utterly savage. Suddenly his lips curled in a fierce snarl. Sergeant Krenzer advanced a step, speaking soothingly. The child ran, crying piteously.

 

There was no more time. The sergeant gave the candy bar to another child and hurried to rejoin his outfit.

 

But something had happened to Krenzer. He had been in the Army for eight years and had know frontline warfare in the Pacific and one year with occupation forces in Japan. As a veteran soldier he was used to destruction. But here, for the first time, Krenzer saw the destruction through the eyes of a child of war. It hit him hard. He wanted to go back, to find the terrified child who had run from him.

 

So no soldier could have been more pleasantly surprised than Sergeant Krenzer when he was assigned to the United Nations Civil Assistance Command, a unit which provides aid for homeless Korean civilians. One of his first acts was to search among the children who haunted the railroad station for the boy who had snarled and fled. Krenzel found him at last, under a heap of filthy burlap bags where the boy had crawled away to die.

 

He picked the lad up. There was no weight there. The wasted legs and arms, covered with sores, hung limply, like those of a puppet. The child stirred, and the sergeant looked down into wide, terrified eyes.

 

Instantly the boy bit him. The matchstick arms and legs clawed, kicked and hit in a frenzy that was gone almost as fast as it came. There was no strength left. Other children came to stare and one, an alert, bright-eyed youngster of about 11, said, " Me Kim. Me speak English."

 

"Good," said Sergeant Krenzer. "Tell this kid I'm trying to help him."

 

And so began a partnership that was to save countless lives.

 

Kim went with Krenzer to a United Nations orphanage, where Korean nuns took the waif. They gave him intravenous feedings, and by a miracle the child lived. Through Kim the sergeant got his story. The boy was only four. He had no recollection of his wanderings after his parents were killed, or of how he reached Seoul. He did remember, vividly, that the Communist soldiers had told him that if any American offered him food or candy he was to run for his life, for the food would be poisoned.

 

Time and again Sgt. Krenzer was to run into the dreadful results of this lie. Until his rescue teams managed to spread the truth, starving children would flee at the sight of an American soldier, and hundreds of them perished.

 

That summer of 1952, however, a story ran through the child grapevine about a tall, smiling soldier who could be found around the railroad station in Seoul who would not poison you, who seemed to want to help you. Desperate enough to try anything, the children filtered in.

 

Krenzer began to study Korean. His little interpreter, Kim, began to improve his English. They made an excellent team. Children who would have run from the sergeant listened to Kim. "He can charm a bird," the sergeant says.

 

When Sgt. Krenzer began his work, there were only bleak barracks for shelter, rice and a meager amount of Army rations for food, and limited amounts of clothing. The sergeant enlisted the aid of organizing charities, and persuaded his friends, civilian and military alike, to turn the barracks into homelike orphanages Even so, many children were too frightened to accept the aid held out to them. It was Krenzer's sensitive understanding of their fears that made him so valuable. Every night he and Kim wandered the streets, approaching the waifs one at a time, winning their confidence.

 

Then Krenzer had another idea. More than food and shelter, he realized, these children needed love. And there were thousands of homeless women refugees wandering around looking for their children, their families. Krenzer wasn't able to find each mother's own child, but he could ask her to take care for a homeless waif. And so - the childless mothers took the motherless children and cared for them. And these desperate mothers were given hope that their own children might find the same kind of refuge.

 

Thanks to a constant flow of letters from Seoul, Kenzer's home town of Middle Village, N.Y, has become the scene of miniature Bundles-for-Korea campaign. His letters home appeal for "anything, just anything, Mom. Tell the neighbors, tell everybody to send old clothes. It's heart-rending to see these kids - some of them not even three years old - shivering and all but starved."

 

As the summer receded and winter began, Sgt. Krenzer faced a problem. His term of enlistment would end in March. He though of his home, and the life that he had missed for nearly nine years. But each time he started to arrange for passage he was stopped by another near-dying child who needed him. Could he desert his children in this war-wrecked land for his own comfort?

 

January 1 came and went. And Sgt. Krenzer had no passage for home. His decision - and it was not an easy one to make - was that he would not leave.

 

Today, just a few months after he decided to stay, when Krenzer brings another child to one of the orphanages there are many friends. He sees smiling faces, cheeks that have filled out with the health of youth. He sees in their eyes not gaunt despair but new faith and hope and even cheer, though they still live within the sound of guns and planes.