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.

 

 



Go To Hull

May you go to Hull is not a curse, so relax. In fact if you really want to relax you may want to go Spinnaker Island.

Spinnaker island in the background



Spinnaker Island (formerly known as Park Island, Hog Island, and Little Hog Island) is an island in the Hingham Bay area of Boston Harbor in Massachusetts, USA. The island is part of the town of Hull, to which it is connected by a bridge, and is one of the few harbor islands that neither forms part of the Boston Harbor Islands National Recreation Area nor is considered within the municipal limits of the city of Boston.

The Eleanor and The Boston Tea Party



One of the colonists dumping tea into water

This is a replica of the Eleanor. The original  was one of several vessels owned by leading Boston merchant, smuggler, and Boston Board of Selectman, John Rowe. His holdings included stores, warehouses and Rowe’s Wharf, a current Boston landmark. Rowe was an active smuggler and inciter in the years preceding the American Revolution. He was influential in protesting British authority, specifically Britain’s tightening restrictions on colonial trade. John Rowe is credited for being one of the leading instigators of the Stamp Act riot in August 1765. During the riot, the mob destroyed the mansion of Thomas Hutchinson, the Lieutenant Governor and Chief Justice of Massachusetts. At the time of the Boston Tea Party, Captain Bruce, a Tory sympathizer, commanded the Eleanor, and her homeport was the city of Boston. The Eleanor, with her cargo of 114 chests of British East India Company tea, arrived at Griffin’s Wharf in Boston on Thursday, December 2, 1773 – fourteen days prior to the December 16, 1773, Boston Tea Party.

Weathervane on top of Tea Party Museum

Custom House Tower

 

The tower was added to the base in 1913–1915 . Although Boston at that time had a 125-foot height restriction, the Custom House was federally owned and exempt from it. The new tower's 496 feet  made it the city's tallest. In 1947, the Old John Hancock Building, just one foot shorter, joined it in the skies over Boston. In 1964, it was exceeded by the Prudential Tower. The clock on the upper tower of the building is 22 feet  in diameter. Because of an undersized motor, it failed to work properly through much of the 20th century. In 1960, the Great Seal of the United States was painted in the lobby's dome.

It was declared "surplus property" when custom officials moved into the Thomas P. O'Neill building in 1986. On April 16, 1987, the city of Boston purchased the building from the G S A, and the building remained unoccupied and inaccessible for 14 years.

The BRA, the Landmarks Commission, the Massachusetts Historical Society, the Beal Companies, and Jung Brannen Associates, Inc. all proposed concepts for the use of the building that ranged from museums to offices to residential developments. In 1995, the Beal Companies and Marriott Ownership Resorts International announced plans to develop the building into a timeshare resort. The building was converted into an 87-room Marriott Vacation Club starting in 1997.

Working around the tower’s structural constraints, the project team devised ways to fit four to five suites, with custom-designed built-in cabinetry and furnishings, on each floor. This resulted in the creation of 87 one-bedroom suites with 22 different floor plan designs. A private owner’s lounge, an exercise area and a game room were a few of the other amenities designed into the project. Also designed into the project was significant public access, including a new ground floor, a rotunda-level maritime museum and exhibit space, and guided tours of the refurbished observation deck on the tower’s 26th floor.

Where In Boston?

Can you guess where in Boston this is?

George J. Holmes

As I was wandering Downtown Crossing, camera in hand, I noticed the following sign. I was curious to find what this was all about.

http://www.bpdnews.com/2011/01/12/george-j-holmes/

Just a Little Boy

He stands at the plate

With heart pounding fast.

The bases are loaded;

The die has been cast.

Mom and dad cannot help him,

He’s standing all alone.

A hit at this moment

Would send the team home.

 

The ball meets the plate;

He swings and he misses.

There’s a groan from the crowd

With some boos and some hisses.

A thoughtless voice cries,

“Strike out the bum.”

Tears fill his eyes,

The game no longer fun.

 

So open your hearts

And give him a break.

For it’s moments like this,

A man can make.

Keep this in mind

When you hear someone forget.

He’s just a little boy

And not a man yet.

Patriot's Day 2013

Patriot’s Day 2013 will be remember as the day that celebrations at the finish line of the annual running of the Boston Marathon were instantly changed into shock, grief, sadness and anger as what some at a distance thought might have been a cannon going off turned to be an act of ‘terror,’ called simply for no other reason that it terrorized the people there and wherever around the country and world runners had ties to. No, people soon realized that this wasn’t a re-enactment of the battle of Lexington and Concord, the one which Emerson referred to as the "shot heard 'round the world," in the opening stanza of  the 'Concord Hymn," but one that many throughout the world experience with much more frequency nowadays. “This isn’t supposed to happen in Boston,” some were heard to say, but someone thought differently. The color red from today was not from the red coats that were worn by the British but from the innocent blood that was splattered on people, buildings and streets.

"In all my medical training, I have not seen things that I saw [Monday]. Everything was traumatic," said Dr. Vivek Shah who was among those who provided on-site assistance He had just crossed the 26.2-mile finish line at the Boston marathon Monday when he was forced to put his medical skills to work. Shah, an orthopedic surgeon at New England Baptist Hospital in Roxbury Crossing, Mass., said he saw injuries along the sidewalks on Boylston Street for which no amount of training could prepare him.

Some of the other first responders mentioned that the scene was that of a battlefield. One of the runners coming through the finish line described how part of someone’s leg came flying by him. Reporters at the scene from WBZ TV who were 30 feet away described how they were stunned at first thinking that maybe a manhole cover blew off. It didn’t take long for them to see what happened as the cloud of white smoke cleared. This white smoke didn’t signal the election of a new pontiff but was a sign that sent many running away but also had many running to the scene to help in whatever way they could. People were repeatedly yelling, “Oh my God, oh my God.”

On this almost perfect weather day for running the medical tent that was just near the finish line proved to be a blessing and because of its close proximity and the many medical volunteers who raced into action probably saved a number of lives. Many of these ‘good Samaritans’ are in my prayer of thanksgiving. They rank right up there with those brave Minutemen who fought not far from here for our freedom during the Revolutionary War.

 

 

I first heard of the events when 98.5 FM which is one of the two sports call-in stations in Boston switched to their sister station WBZ who had been broadcasting from the marathon. I then started to worry about my sons, one who is domiciled in the
Fire House which is the closest to the finish line. I tried to get in touch but to no avail as later on all cell phone service for Boston was cut off. Hours later I breathed a sigh of relief when I did make contact with all three. The oldest was not on duty that day but was at the Fire House preparing for Tuesday’s shift and apparently was trying to check on a friend and son who ran in the marathon.

I hope that whoever is responsible for this cowardly act is soon caught. As bad as this was it could have been a lot worse if it happened an hour sooner when a lot more people would have been in that area.

It’s in times such as these when many come to the realization of how fragile life is. One moment one may be cheering and celebrating the next may be one of crying and mourning. I echo the sentiments published by the Christian Science Monitor, “Marathons, including the one in Boston, celebrate courage, endurance, strength, freedom, and joy, and the bombings that took place at this year's event cannot be allowed to have the last word.”