Who's old?!

Max stayed here for much of the weekend. He had some extra energy Friday night, so I said let’s take Kodiak for a walk around the block. We felt pretty good, so it turned into a longer walk, all the way down to the church office. We stopped in for a moment to say hi to Bobbi the receptionist who watches the office in the evenings, then we headed over to the new fire station. Max was not impressed, so we kept on down the street. All of a sudden he grabbed his crotch and said, “It’s time to go home.” “Do you have to go to the bathroom, Max?” When he said yes, we headed back to the church office. It wasn’t such an emergency after all, because he ran and jumped and splashed in the puddles without a care in the world. On Saturday he remarked to Kathy, “You’re not an old lady, right” Kathy agreed. He went on, “But Da is an old man.” “Why is that, Max?” ”He has white hair and you don’t.!” Of course Kathy cheats, but she wasn’t about to explain the miracle of her own hair to Max.

Mass for the Dead

Tomorrow the noon Mass is for deceased members of Social Justice.

It’s funny how when I first joined the group, we had that Mass and I didn’t know anyone who had died, though the others could talk about them in great detail. Now, though, there are plenty of people to remember:

-Alma, one of the co-founders of the group. By the time I had joined, she had stopped coming to meetings since she didn’t feel up to it. I met her husband a while ago, and I was impressed by their willingness to put themselves out there, to take up the bishop’s challenge back in the 70’s, to put Christ’s teachings into action.

-Rose, who always baked something for the workers at holiday food packing, and whose daughter was always in desperate straits. Rose would give her food, though other people would complain that the daughter didn’t even live in the area and so did not deserve such charity. Rose always seemed like nervous bird to me, never at rest, though now I expect she is.

-Helene, who was ancient when I met her seven or eight years ago. She was the heart of the call chain, letting members know about upcoming meetings or whatever everyone needed to know about. This was in the days before email, though many of our members don’t have computers any way even to this day, so we still rely on phones.

-Wilma, who was just the sweetest person. Very tall and thin, she was very personable. We used to kid each other about assembling the Christmas angels. This process was usually a girl thing, but here I was, trying to keep up with the women who were skilled in arts and crafts. One year, my job was to put the “make-up” on the wooden angel faces. Well, Wilma just thought that was hilarious. Another year, I was gluing “hair” onto them, another source of great amusement. I miss her.

Ceil, who lived down the street from me. I didn’t know her too well, though she reminded me of my mother’s friends back in New Jersey. She always came to meetings with her best friend. When Ceil died, her friend could not bring herself to return to our gatherings.

Rudy, a rare male member of the group. He was in his 70’s I think, when he and his wife joined us. He was a great fix-it guy. Couldn’t hear too well, but he could look at a problem and come up with a nifty solution, Making clever stands for our rummage sale signs, repairing clothes racks—whatever needed doing.

Carolyn. I’m still mad at Carolyn. She was thin, slight build, always had short gray hair the whole time I knew her. I could always count on her in meetings to bring up something I had left off the list of important items to mention. “John” she would start, “Don’t you think we should…” And of course she was always right about whatever it was she wanted to talk about—not pushy right, but just right right. Chances are, I skipped an item because I didn’t think it was important, but she never let me slide. She was a heavy smoker for years and developed lung cancer a few years ago. I went to see her in the hospital once, and there was no one else in her room. I found her sitting in a hospital chair in her nightie, one knee up, one curled under her. She looked like a pixie. We talked for a while about not much and then I left. She died a few days later. I’m still mad because I miss her so much, and because it was all so unnecessary. She didn’t have to have lung cancer. It didn’t have to happen.

We have some members who are failing now, so I expect this list will growth with the names of wonderful people, both crotchety and sweet, who did what they could to make others’ lives a little easier. I wonder who will step up to take their places?

Just picking up some clothes

I met the most interesting man tonight. I was up at church to dig out the big vinyl sign that we use to advertise our Social Justice Group rummage sale. When I went back to the office, there was a message for me that said that someone had some clothes to donate for the sale, but that we had to send someone to pick them up.

It was a nice sunny evening, so I called the man, whose name was Cliff, and said I could come out right away. He gave me very precise directions to the assisted living building where he lived. “Go in the corner parking lot, not the nursing home lot. We are NOT the nursing home. Go in the door in the corner. There’s a sign that says go left, but forget about that. Go in the corner door and ask someone how to get to my apartment.”

I found the place just as he had described it, went in the door and saw the stairs leading to his place on the second floor. He had some coats and a laundry basket of folded sheets, some women’s boots and hats. His wife had died a couple of weeks ago and he was planning to move out to San Diego soon, so he was trying to clear some things out.

It turns out that he and his wife were part of the group that founded our Social Justice organization back in the ‘70’s. He mentioned that in passing, as we were getting the clothes together. He was very well spoken and very sharp for someone in their 80’s. I asked him what sort of work he had done, and sure enough, he had been an electrical engineer. I said, I knew it! Just by his way of thinking and manner of speaking, I figured he was an engineer. Plus, he had every electronic toy known to man in that tiny apartment.

I started to take the coats off the hangars and I looked at him and asked, “Did you check the pockets?” He looked surprised and replied, “No, I didn’t think of that.” So we put them on the couch and he went through each one. He searched coat after coat, finding nothing. “No money yet?”, I kidded him. Finally, he did find something, reaching into one pocket and pulling out a TV remote! He explained that in her last days, his wife suffered from dementia, and would put things away “inappropriately”, as he said.

There was one pocket he missed, so I quietly poked around in it and pulled out a string belt for a robe, a rosary and finally some money—there was a quarter in there too.

As I was leaving, a woman neighbor stopped by to remind Cliff that it was time for nickel poker downstairs. Good thing we searched those pockets.

A shot of family values

Do you live where you have always lived? With the same people you grew up with? I don’t. My family lives 450 miles away. I moved to Ohio in 1976 and have been here ever since. This is OK, but I have been immersed in my wife’s family’s culture all that time. They have shared memories, events, funny stories about this uncle or that aunt—things I don’t share with them. So, every once in a while, I drive to New Jersey to get an infusion of my family culture.

That’s what I did this past weekend. I took the new car so I could play my iPod through the speakers and so I could bond with this car. Kathy always drives everywhere, and I hadn’t had any quality time with this new vehicle. I love driving and I love driving by myself. And playing my tunes. Loudly. Repeatedly.
I kind of took my time getting there on this past Friday, just enjoying the ride. I couldn’t really hurry anyway, with all the road destruction that was going on. It took me two hours longer than usual, and a half hour just to cross the bridge at the Delaware Water Gap.

Kathy will never stop at the Water Gap, so I always do. I park and walk down to the river and take photos. Sometimes there are feral cats running around, sometimes you’ll see someone fishing. This time, I had the place to myself. The river was very low, with sand and a wide expanse of water-smoothed rocks exposed.
My parents owned property further up the river near the New York border, and built a small A-frame house for the weekends. It was kind of like camping. No running water, had to use an outhouse, but boy, were the woods beautiful in the morning.
In fact, I proposed to Kathy up there in those woods one weekend about 37 years ago.
There was an old car, 1940’s vintage, that someone had abandoned down the by the river near their property. It disintegrated over the years, and gradually just disappeared. We would watch it’s progress (or de-gress?) each time we visited.
I climbed back into the car and rejoined the long line of travelers inching their way into northern New Jersey.

My sister had arrived at my dad’s house a couple of hours before me, and she was busily cleaning the place: dusting, sweeping, wiping, vacuuming, straightening. Dad can’t see that well anymore, so he doesn’t see the dirt. I had brought a bucket of gardening tools to help out in the yard, but was discouraged from doing so by my dad because he has someone come to cut the grass. I said, well, I can weed the front yard, in that case. My sister said, “Don’t bother—the weeds will just come back.” I figured, hey—the dirt’s just going to come back, too! She’s too nice, though, for me to say such a snippy thing.

I noticed that the paint on his garage door was peeling, and realized that that was where I could make my contribution! He bought the paint, and I spent the next few hours scraping, sanding and painting. It looked great when I was done. He was pleased.

We all went out to dinner that night, along with my other sister. No husbands, brothers-in-law or anything. Just us. My brother was not due back into town until late Saturday, so he was the only one missing. Of course, my mom died in 1998 and my youngest brother in 1984, so maybe I should say, most of the surviving members of the family were there. It’s fun to be with people who look like me, who share the same tastes and who remember the same things I remember. For instance, after dinner, my sister walked into my dad’s house and said, “Got any chocolate?”—which is exactly what I do—look for chocolate after dinner, before dinner, after lunch—you get the idea. When I went into my dad’s kitchen, there were cookies, peanut butter crackers and candy around the counters, and a freezer full of ice cream—just what I would have if it were up to me.

On Saturday I went for a walk with the sister who was staying at dad’s house with me. We talked about our spouses, our kids, our plans, our hopes. Later that night we had dinner at our other sister’s house. My dad doesn’t really like to go over there, though, since her husband is an opinionated poop. He did admit that Bush was a moron, so things didn’t go too badly.

On another walk, we went up the old house where we all grew up. My sister boldly knocked on the door because she wanted to see what they had done with the place. No one was home, though. So, we trespassed. We walked around the house peering into windows and saw that everything was different. The kitchen and dining room had been moved, one bathroom was much nicer than what we had, and they had added a fireplace to the family room. How could they afford to do all this? Apparently they had sold a big chunk of the back yard to a developer, who tore down the house next door and was preparing something dastardly in the newly expanded lot.
We used to have our own baseball field out there. We had a backstop and a pitcher’s mound and everything. Now it’s all gone.

Anyway, we met my brother, his wife and two of his daughters for breakfast on Sunday morning, and I basked in the glow of the family energy there.

My trip back to Ohio was uneventful. I made it back in exactly seven hours. Pretty good coming all the way from Dad's. Usually I take off from ny brother’s house, and that gives me a head start, since he is further west. Route 80 New Jersey was very crowded, with three speed traps, so I had to behave myself. It took me until halfway across PA to find a truck that would go 80 miles an hour in front of me and thus serve as my front door. I would slow down when he slowed down, and it worked out very nicely for 150 miles.

It was so nice to spend time with people with whom I have a shared history like ours. Being out here is OK, but every once in a while I need a shot of old fashioned family culture.

First Communion

Today Kathy and I went to our niece’s son’s First Communion. Yes, the niece whose husband pulled a gun on his family this past week.

They had each child at the end of a pew and they marched in to take their places. The Mass was very nice, with lots of kids participating in the readings and the petitions. As I sat there and watched all this unfold, I thought about my own First Communion back in the 50’s and how I felt then. It was a fun time as we practiced in the church, getting ready for the big day. At that time, we were the baby boomers coming through the school system, so there were long lines of children dressed all in white going down the street to the church. I remember being afraid that the host would get stuck in my throat and for many years after, I would purposefully push it down with my tongue to make sure I swallowed it without incident.

Now I am a Eucharistic Minister, something unheard of fifty years ago. It is my privilege to distribute Communion at Mass. Talk about being nervous—on my first day as a Minister, I dropped the host twice, my hands were so sweaty. Even on the second day, the host still slipped out of my hand. These days, though, I am more at ease.

We had a nice party out at Kathy’s sister’s house. Max had fun with his cousins, the grownups had fun watching the kids. We had tons of food. We also had an out of town visitor: the mom of the gun wielding husband. She was staying at our niece’s house—remember the husband was not allowed to be there—so that had to be awkward. It turns out the mother started working on our niece, blaming her for the husband’s behavior. I would have expected an apology, or an expression of concern, but that’s not the way she reacted. She needs to get a clue—her son learned that behavior somewhere, it didn’t just materialize this week. We were polite, of course, and no one brought up the recent unpleasantness.

Our niece is not talking about her plans. She says she doesn’t want to make any decisions right now. I wish I knew how to help her.

A roomful of police on a Wednesday night

Last night there were four policemen in my living room, and four police cars out in front of my house.

Kathy’s sister called us at about 8:15pm to tell us that her daughter Jessica was coming over with her boys and that we should just let them in. So of course we did, not knowing any details. It seems that Jessica and her husband Phil, never on the best of terms anyway, had gotten into an argument that night. It became physical and she gave him a bloody nose. He said, “I’m going to take care of you once and for all.” Then he stood in the kitchen feeding bullets into a handgun.

At that point, Jessica grabbed the boys, ages 3 and 8 and jumped into her car. They arrived at our house without any shoes, they had left in such a hurry. When we heard the details of what led up to their flight, I told her to call the police. She reluctantly did so, and then my living room filled up with officers.

She was in such a state, she kept asking us what she should do. Of course, you can’t really tell someone else what they should do in a situation like that. All you can do is explain options and let her choose. We went back and forth for over an hour and a half discussing all this. The police were very good and convincing and in the end, she decided to file domestic violence charges against him. He went to jail for the night, and now she has to go on from here.

This morning they were in court and fortunately, they got a very strict judge who set up a restraining order against him. He’s not allowed to have any contact with her or the kids unless her parents are present. He is not allowed in the house. She is to call 911 if she sees him anywhere near them. A few days ago a woman was shot to death in a similar situation, so everyone is very jumpy about this stuff. That must be why there was such a show of force at our house last night. We must have tied up half the city police force between the two houses.

Another sad thing about the whole deal is that this coming weekend is the eight year old’s First Communion. Kathy and I are his godparents so we will be at the Mass. At the very least, we have to decide where to have the party, since our niece is in no shape to host twenty-five people. Of course the father is not allowed to attend (he did ask the judge and the judge said absolutely not).

I have to say I was very impressed by the police who showed up. An older guy, a sergeant, took the lead on explaining Jessica’s options to her. He didn’t try to tell her what to do, but did a great job steering her in the right direction. I hope she did it because it’s what she wanted, and not because she thought it was what everyone else wanted. I hope she doesn’t back down. I am praying for the whole family.