Roasted Red Peppers

I just roasted some red peppers that I got on sale at Kroger today. Every time I see them, I think of my dad and have to buy some. He was the consummate pepper roaster. I can remember coming in on a Saturday afternoon to the acrid smell of burnt pepper skin wafting out of the oven. I hated that smell, but I loved the taste of those roasted peppers.

Red ones were the best. They were sweeter than the green ones, although Dad had a way of taking the edge off green peppers and making them almost as tasty as the red ones. Still, when red peppers were on sale, we knew we were in for a treat.

Whenever I'd see them for less than $1 each, I'd buy 4 or 5 for Dad and take them out to his house. I'd try to get the big, fleshy ones so that the roasted meat would be juicy and good. He'd put them whole, under the broiler, turning them until the skins were black on every side, and they'd deflated a bit. Then he'd take them out, let them cool awhile, and then peel the blackened skin from the meat of the pepper, carefully saving any juice that dripped down while he peeled them.

Once there was a pile of roasted pepper in a dish, he'd sprinkle some red wine or balsamic vinegar on the slices and let them sit and cool. Then we would feast. It was nothing for us to eat 4 or 5 peppers at one sitting. They were so good. Sometimes, he'd make a batch and bring them up to me. They'd be cold from the fridge, stewing in the vinegar/pepper juice mix, and would taste oh so good. My peppers never taste like Dad's did no matter what I do.

I think roasted peppers are a family thing. Dad's older cousin, Jane, told me once how her grandmother, Jane, used to hold the peppers on a spit over the coal burning furnace until they were black and then fix them up to eat later. She said, "Gran's peppers were so delicious! I could never make mine taste like Gran's." That must be a family thing too...Or maybe it's just that peppers taste so much better when they are cooked by someone you love.

A Letter to Fr. Fred.

Dear Fr. Fred,

You have been on my mind a great deal this Lenten Season, so I was very happy to find you so easily on the Internet!

I hope you remember me...from Our Lady of Consolation in Louisville. I still live here after a brief few years traveling with my military husband from Texas to Arizona to Hawaii and back. Kirk and I will be married 20 years soon and have 3 kids. Our son is 16, and our daughters are 13 and 10.

You probably know Mom died in September 2005 after a long battle with cancer, and Dad died in July, 2011 from complications of Parkinson's Syndrome (actually we're pretty sure he had Multiple System Atrophy, but Parkinson's Syndrome is easier for people to understand.)

I was sitting in church last night for Holy Thursday services remembering when Mom had her feet washed. I think she was one of the first women in the parish to have this done, and I think you did it. Whoever it was remarked on the nice paint job on her toenails! I remember she got her first pedicure just for that occasion!

Holy Thursday usually stirs up my nostalgia, and I find that Holy Thursday and Good Friday---the incense, the songs, the prayers---take me back to the pews of OLC and the many, many hours I spent in services there. You are the priest I remember most from my childhood, and I wanted you to know how very much I treasure and appreciate all of the times you shared with our family.

I remember when you came to OLC. We had loved Fr. Arnold so much, and we didn't know how you would be, but you were so funny and nice, and we fell in love with you right away. I can picture you walking down the halls of school in your black cassock with the rope belt with the knots tied in it. (Fr. David always twirled his, but you didn't). You were the epitome of a "friendly friar." You used to come into the classroom to pass out our report cards, and I remember waiting nervously as you looked at mine, hoping and praying that I got good grades! Once I got an "N" for too much talking! You looked at me and simply said, "Let's fix this next time." I straightened right up!

One day, I was sent to the hallway during class for an unjust accusation (really!). It was the first time I had EVER been sent to the hall. I was sobbing, and you walked by. I was mortified because I didn't want you to think I had done something wrong when I hadn't. You stopped and listened to me, and I quit crying. The teacher eventually got the whole story, and I was exonerated, but your kindness stayed with me.

You were also very easy to go to confession to. My sins seemed awful, but once I told you, and never felt judged, I felt like a new child of God. Never shamed. Never judged. Always accepted and encouraged to do better next time.

I remember I thought it was so cool how you loved Snoopy. I wanted to get you a Peanuts ornament for Christmas one year. I think I persuaded Mom to buy it for you, if I remember correctly. I was so pleased!

You never seemed upset about anything. I loved how you and the other friars would come to our house for parties. I always felt like we were special because you all came by. Do you remember my mom cooking breakfast for you all one night after Midnight Mass? You and another priest (Fr. David, maybe?) came by after mass, and Mom fried up eggs and bacon and hash browns, all at the spur of the moment. It was so unexpected. It still brings a smile to my face.

And once I remember I was having a slumber party. It was on a Friday during Lent. Mom had accidentally purchased pepperoni pizza for my friends and me. When she realized what she had done, she told us that we would have to wait until after midnight to eat it, but then she got to wondering if it would be okay, since she was worried if we were still on Friday since we were still awake. So she called you to ask if we could eat the pepperoni pizza after midnight. You laughed, she said, and asked, "Wanda, what day is it at 12:01?" She replied, "Saturday." You said, "Then they can eat the pizza!" And we did.

Over the past few years, I have struggled with some of the rules of the Catholic faith (remember, my dad was a dyed-in-the-wool Democrat!). Being raised Catholic is the only thing I know, and I didn't want to leave the Church. I was in a parish with a diocesan priest/cannon lawyer/vicar/tow-the-line pastor. There was not a lot of room for questioning or disagreement or anything. I felt accused and frowned upon and outcast.

Some of the only things that kept me going were my memories of you and the other wonderful Franciscan priests who had "raised" me in my faith. I remember just being surrounded by kindness and compassion and caring. It didn't seem to me that you were as much about the rules as you were about the people---your concern about our well-being, our joy, our feeling the love of God in our lives. Maybe I'm remembering incorrectly, and you were about the rules. If that is the case, please don't correct me! My memories of OLC and being surrounded by compassionate priests who cared about their parishioners is what got me through the past few years, and I just wanted to thank you for that!

I sat in the pew tonight, as our new priest (smile!) carried the cross down the aisle before the veneration, and memories of you flashed in my head. It was Good Friday at OLC. Middle of the day. The pews were packed with kids. The lights were out in church, but sunlight was streaming thorough the stained glass windows, casting a mystical light on all of us. I could visualize you holding the crucifix covered in a purple cloth singing, "This is the wood of the cross..." and unwrapping a section at a time as you made your way to the altar. It brought tears to my eyes and a smile to my lips, that memory.

Fr. Fred, thank you for being such a wonderful priest. Thank you for your compassion and kindness and friendliness and caring. Thank you for being a part of our celebrations and our sadness, for shaping the early years of my faith and giving me somewhere to cling in times of trouble and doubt. I always felt safe in your church, at your mass, around you. You were a little bit of Jesus on Earth, and I am so glad to know you!

I hope that your ministry is a blessing in your life, as I am sure you are a blessing to those you serve. I hope you have a wonderful Easter Season!

With deepest fondness,

International Women's Day Shout Out

Thursday, March 8 is International Women's Day. It got me to thinking about all of the strong women I know and all of the men who supported them.

Think of how much things have changed since we were young. How many professional women did you know growing up? How many women worked because they wanted to? I didn't know any female doctors, lawyers, or investment brokers. I did know female teachers, secretaries, tellers, and nurses, but that was it. Most of my friends' moms stayed home or had one of those "acceptable" professions. I think it speaks volumes about how far we've come that my children go to female pediatricians. My doctors are all women. One of my friends at church is the CFO of a major bank in town. Another is a high-powered attorney for a big law firm. Our first financial advisor was a woman.

When my daughter was in first grade, she came home with a worksheet on which she had gotten a problem wrong. I was checking it over to see what she had missed. They had had to put the first letter of the word that described a picture, and she had put "D" under a picture of a woman with a shot in her hand. I asked her to explain her answer, and she said, "That's a doctor, Mom. I don't know why I got it wrong." I sent her teacher a note explaining her confusion, but her teacher, being near retirement, still counted it wrong. "We're on Ns," she said. "That's a nurse." I thought then how cool it was that my thoughtful child would put a "D for doctor" under that picture and not automatically assume that a woman with a shot would be a nurse.

How the world has changed!

I think about my grandmother, whose potential was enormous but whose opportunities were limited. Her father, my great-grandpa Josep, was so forward thinking in 1908 that after he has sent her and her sister through secondary school in France, he sent them to every other possible schooling they could attend. THEN, he sent them to the Isle of Jersey to learn English. When they were adults, my aunt was supporting herself in Switzerland working as a designer in clothing manufacture, and my grandmother was a secretary at a champagne company in Reims. Once in America, my grandmother was able to get a job as a secretary at a tobacco company. She would take dictation from her English-speaking boss, translate it in her mind to French where she would write in in shorthand in French. Then she would translate it back into English and copy the dictated letter in English for him to sign and send on its way. Her father made sure that this brilliant mind did not go to waste! To think that Grandpa Joe was so open minded that he wanted everything for his daughters that they could possibly achieve boggles my brain. My heart swells with gratitude for his support of the women in his life.

Then I think of my Great-Grandma Jane, who left Ireland in 1886 to come to America to be a domestic servant. She took the only opportunity she had and ran with it. She and her sisters started a loan company so that the Irish immigrants could get money from somewhere because no bank would loan to the "papists." She became a wealthy woman. She purchased the apartment building in which she lived and had enough money that when my grandparents went to buy their house, she loaned them the money, not the bank.

These two women defied the odds that were stacked against them and were successful, but it would not have been so had they not had the support of their fathers and husbands. Grandma Jane's husband must have encouraged her, otherwise she would not have had the gumption to do what she did. When he had a stroke in his early 50s, she was able to keep the family afloat. Their son saw in his mother the value of a smart, powerful woman, so when he met my grandmother, his boss's secretary, he knew a good thing when he saw it.

Together, they raised five children and put both daughters through college when women during that time traditionally didn't attend school past 12th grade.

My father in turn raised three daughters to become whatever we wanted to be. It was never in doubt that had we wanted to be doctors or lawyers or financeers, we would have been encouraged and supported 100%. By choice, my sisters and I took the traditional routes. Two of us became teachers, and one became a nurse. But it was our choice to follow these calls. All of my dad's siblings were educators---two college professors, one librarian, and a high school teacher. My grandmother taught French in her home. My mother's grandmother was a teacher in a one-room schoolhouse in the Kentucky countryside. Education is in our blood, but had we wanted more, we would have been told to go for it.

I look at my daughters, and it is no longer impossible for them to become President of the United States if they so choose. Several very strong women have put that possibility within their reach. It is amazing when I watch movies set in the 1960s to see how far we've come within a couple of generations. I cannot imagine what we as a society have lost because so many brilliant minds have been stifled over the course of centuries, and I am thankful to those who have come before me, forging the path of choice for me, that I can choose to be a stay-at-home mom or I can choose to be a CFO of a major corporation.

We still have a LONG way to go. That we are still debating women's healthcare choices is crazy frustrating to me, but I know we will get past this and move on and be better for it. In the meantime, I send a shout out to Jane, Henriette, Anna, Josep, Maria, John, Joseph, John, Wanda and Kirk for their unwavering belief that women can do whatever they want.

What we leave behind

What struck me too was how little we leave."

God, how true this is. I saw it first hand when we whittled Uncle Bob down from a 3 bedroom house to a 1 bedroom efficiency to what we could haul away in our cars. Again with Dad. What is left? Some furniture? Some letters? Dishes? A class ring? Once the knowledge of who these things belonged to is lost, they cease to have meaning. I inherited things from both of these wonderful men that some would consider junk, but to me, these things are precious because they once belonged to men I loved. Through these things, Dad and Uncle Bob are still part of my life. Once their history is forgotten, what is left?

It is sad what we cling to.

I have a piece of paper that I found in my mother's purse. She had written my phone number on it and then later used it to blot her lipstick. I keep it to remind me that she. was. here. Sometimes I open it up and place it on my cheek as if she is giving me a kiss. But to anyone else, it's just a used up piece of paper.

And Jane. What of Jane? She was born in Ireland, in the middle part of the 19th century. One of twelve children, most of whom left Erie for greener pastures. The girls, all six, came to America. The boys went to Australia and America, save William that we know for sure who stayed in Thurles. And can you imagine their mother? Losing most of her children to the new worlds? Once they left, rarely did they return, most certainly they did not come back from Australia. I can only find where Jane went back once after Willie died. Her sisters pooled their money and sent Jane, John, and JWF back to Ireland to get her mind off things, as if a trip "home" only to leave again would help.

During a crossing to America, she was in steerage. She was traveling with her niece, as the story goes, and it was so rough, that they drank the holy water they had brought with them from Ireland so to preserve their souls should the boat sink.

She arrived in the US the same year the Statue of Liberty was dedicated. I wonder what she thought as she entered New York Harbor. She worked as a domestic for a time before marrying another Irish immigrant she had met here, a carpenter, from a town not fifty miles from her own. She had two sons and a daughter. Her husband had a stroke and had to give up his business and work for the New York Botanical Gardens. Her children were industrious. Her oldest child had his first job lighting the candles in the local Jewish Synagogue on Saturday nights.

She must have been smart and good with math. She and her sisters started their own loan company. Banks wouldn't lend money to Irish immigrants, so Jane and her sisters did. They charged interest and saved and loaned and saved and loaned. By the time Mimi and Poppy moved to Louisville, she had enough money that she loaned them what they needed to buy their house on Dorothy Avenue.

She owned the apartment building in which she lived, so she made money from the renters. I can imagine that she did not tolerate late rent payments.

She looks hard in her pictures. All who knew her, from MJW to Dad to Uncle Bob, said that she was not a "nice" grandma. Not mean exactly, but not warm and fuzzy. She meant business.

She certainly was not sentimental. She burned family pictures so no one would "laugh at how funny we looked," as she told MJW. She roasted red peppers in that same furnace, holding them in the fire until the skin was black and blistered and peeled off the meat with ease. Says MJW, "They were delicious."

She buried her son, Willie, when he was seven years old, dying at the end of July of a rheumatic heart. She buried her daughter, Margaret, when she was in her 30s, dying in child birth. Jane was with her through the labor and could not do anything but watch helplessly as her daughter slipped away.

She raised Margaret's children, living with them, while their father, a fireman, worked long hours. She must have been religious. One of the grandchildren she raised became a priest.

What is left of Jane? Only her name on some documents and a marker in Calvary Cemetery in Queens and the stories about her that keep her alive through the telling. I think that is why I write my life for people to read. So that when I am gone, there will be something left, and I will live once again when my words are read.

Gone

I have found myself to be in a "hunkering down" kind of mood this week. I think the reality of the finality has finally hit me. I am only responsible for myself, Kirk, and the kids at this point in my life, after many years of considering my parents and their needs, and it is a weird feeling. I'm not sure what to do with it or myself.

I spent the last three days going through paperwork and photographs that I brought home from Dad's over the course of the last few months. There are family tree things, cards, letters, First Communion certificates, military papers, etc. I had several filled laundry baskets that had been sitting in our room for months now waiting until I had time to sort through them, which I finally did this week.

It was almost surreal to read postcards from my grandfather (dead 52 years now) to my dad (also dead) written when my dad was a little boy in 1937. There were pictures of my grandfather's family, the corners of the photos snug in the little black triangles in an album, taken in 1909 before he had even met my grandmother. Then as I flipped through the pages, I began to see her smiling face, a young woman in a new country being courted by a handsome Irishman. There were pictures taken at Rockaway Beach but no names to identify the folks posing for the camera on the wooden steps of a beach house. I could pick out my grandpa but I have no idea who the others were.

I found notes left by Dad for Mom telling her that he'd gone to the store and would be back in an hour and that he loved her. There was a note from me to Mom one day in 1974. I was mad at her because she wouldn't let me wear shorts in March, and the note was complaining that everyone else would be wearing shorts except me, and I would have to wear long "pance."

I found an engagement card to my mom from my dad's Aunt Josephine. She was kind to my mom, and I wish I remembered her better. There was a copy of my grandma's will and a letter from Aunt Nanette explaining her side of the event that has estranged her from her sister Marie since 1980. There was a letter from Marie to Dad that started out sweet and then ended up hateful and cruel, full of the crazy that has caused such strife in the Fitzpatrick family for decades.

I read letters from me to Dad and from Kirk to Dad. There was a letter I wrote when I was at summer camp in the 6th grade. It's the same camp Kyle went to when he was in the 6th grade. There were cards with zigzag scratches for signatures and "love, Sharron" or "love, Kyle" written in cursive underneath.

The paperwork for the sale of Granny's house was in a folder along with pictures of the many Christmas Eves we celebrated there. Faces long dead stared out at me from the 4 X4 black and white photograph, and I remembered the fun we had in that 4 room house, the front door propped open to let in some air because it got so hot that steam ran in rivulets down the windows in the family room.

I wondered what was it about this card or this note that made it special enough to be saved for so long. What was Mom thinking? Dad? And if they had saved them, then shouldn't I?

All of this washed over me this week; all of these memories and connections, and the reality that everything and everyone is GONE was just too overwhelming. I retreated into my "safe spot" where I can function without thinking too much and didn't come near the computer except to read. I was afraid if I started typing, I wouldn't be able to stop and all of my sadness would just come flowing out.

I finally went to my parents' grave yesterday. I haven't been since the day we buried Dad. I took a rock that has a shamrock on it and says, "Irish Blessings." I looked for and found my grandparents' grave as well. I visit Granny and Grandpa's grave whenever I go to the cemetery, but I've never been able to find Mimi and Poppy's. I stopped in the office and asked for explicit directions and finally, after over 30 years, I found theirs too. I needed to connect with them in someway, and that was as close as I was going to get. It was good, and I'm glad I found them. I saw Uncle Bob's grave and reflected there too.

I have never felt so alone as I do now. It is a sad and lonesome feeling, and I'm not sure what to do with myself.

Because I Said So

"Wach mom I'll be the only one on the street with long pance on Wendy will have them on every one will have them on except me.
To you mom From Sharron"
March, 1974 It was warm and Sharron wanted to put shorts on.


I found this note I had written to my mom almost 40 years ago in a box of papers I'd been going through. It struck me for several reasons. First, I thought it was sweet that my mom had been amused enough by it to keep it, date it, and explain why I was mad. Then I remembered the time (maybe not this time because this happened a lot) when it was warm outside on a spring day, and my mom wouldn't let me wear shorts. My best friend, Wendy, got to wear them. Our other friend, Bert, got to wear them. I could wear a tee shirt and go without a coat, but I had to wear long "pance." When I'd press my mom for a reason, she'd say something like, "Because it's March, and you can't wear shorts in March." If I would keep on pressing long enough to cross the line, she'd look me in the eye and say, "Because I said so." That was it. End of story. No more arguing. I'd hang my head in defeat and accept the reality that someone else besides me was in charge, and I had to let it go.

It used to drive me crazy. I hated the reasoning behind, "Because I said so..." I didn't make sense.

"But WHY do you you say so? Why can't I..."

"Because I said so," would be the reply. Again, end of discussion.

And I vowed when I was a parent that I would never use that as a reason why one of my children couldn't do something. I read parenting books out the wazoo that said, "Give your child a reasonable answer for your decision, and he will accept it better than the old 'because I said so' reason." Made sense to me, I thought. That's how I am going to parent. Not necessarily better, just different.

So when my children would ask if they could do something like ride their bikes in the street without a helmet or use a ladder to climb a tree, I'd sit them down and explain, "Because it's not safe. What if you are riding your bike and a car comes along and doesn't see you?" or "Because if you need a ladder to get started climbing a tree, then it's too high for you to be climbing." It seemed to work for most everything. Occasionally, I would get the, "But why?" and I'd explain again in more detail. And I'll admit that a few times I resorted to, "Because I said so." But those were usually few and far between and when I was particularly stressed out or didn't have time for a lengthy explanation.

Yes, reasoning worked like a charm. Until the kids hit their teenage years and started developing their higher order thinking skills and the ability to turn anything into a debate.

"No, you may not ride in a car with your friend who just got his license...Yes, I'm sure he's a good driver...He's never had an accident? Well I hope not. He's only had his license for 3 months!...No, you can't just drive with him to Taco Bell...I know it's not that far...I'm sure he'll only go the speed limit and use his blinkers and come to a complete stop at each red light. You still can't do it...Stop arguing with me. You cannot ride with him...Because I said so."

"You may go to the movies on Friday, but I am going along. I won't go to the same movie as you, but I'm going to be in the theater...Why? Because I love you, and it's not a safe place for a 12 year old girl to be at night without a grown up present...I don't care if your friends live nearby and do it all the time. You are not your friends...No, you can't walk to your friend's house after to the show...There is a nightclub in that mall and a lot of drug use nearby...I'm sorry that you feel that way, but these are your options: Either I stay at the theater and bring you home after or you don't go...Because I said so."

I am beginning to see the wisdom in my parents' parenting. "Because I said so" works. Yes, my kids get mad when I use it. I got mad when my mom used it. I totally get it. "Because I said so," means, "That's It. No more arguing. You are not going to change my mind. " And that sucks when you are a teenager and trying to look cool and exert your independence. Oh well. Sometimes you don't get your way. Sometimes you don't know best. Sometimes you just have to be the only one who doesn't get to do something.

Because I said so.

Christmas 2011

Feeding time at The Alligator Farm in St. Augustine, Florida had just ended. We had watched in awe as Scott, the trainer, with dead rats hanging out of his pockets, walked amongst 9 and 10-foot alligators weighing hundreds of pounds each, patting them on their heads and leading them around with the promise of a snack. When all of the tasty morsels had been chucked into the gaping grins of the Farm’s residents, Scott stood in the pen with them to take questions from the audience.

He explained to us that really, alligators weren’t aggressive unless they were hungry or felt threatened. However, he asked us to let him know if, while he was busy answering someone’s question, we noticed an alligator eyeing him in a not-so-friendly way. “I don’t want to end up on someone’s You Tube video,” he joked.

So as he stood there talking, we noticed the alligator named Bob slowly making his way towards Scott. Scott looked over and saw Bob getting closer but remained where he was, continuing to answer questions. Bob kept coming. Scott glanced his way but didn’t move. Bob came closer still.

Now, I’m not that familiar with alligator behavior, but I have to say that if I was in a pen with several dozen alligators, and one of them was making his way my way, I’d be moving along. However, Scott just stood there talking, with Bob less than two feet away. “Well, Bob’s obviously not a threat,” we thought, “Otherwise Scott would move.” We knew Scott had seen Bob coming, but Scott was the trainer, and we were the tourists. Who were we to shout, “There’s an alligator about to bite your leg!” when we’d seen Scott see Bob and not move. So we didn’t say a word. We just watched.

SNAP! Suddenly Bob had a hold of Scott’s shorts. Bob nipped Scott’s leg, and blood started running down into his sock. Finally the shorts ripped free of Bob’s teeth, and Scott backed away from Bob’s powerful jaws. He spent the next 5 minutes pushing Bob around and letting Bob know who was boss. He blamed himself for forgetting that he still had dog treats in his pocket. Still, he was in a pit with alligators, walking around with dead rats and dog treats. You’d think he’d realize that something might happen one of these days! He should not have been surprised even though he was.

That’s kind of how it was when we lost Dad this summer. He’d been dancing around in the “Parkinson’s Pit” for several years now, dead rats in one pocket, dog treats in the other. We should not have been surprised when the Parkinson’s came and snatched him away, but we were. Nobody hollered, “Look out for the alligator!” I guess it was just as obvious to them as it was to us when Bob started heading after Scott. He knew Bob could bite, but he didn’t really think it would happen. Whether it was ignorance or denial or a little of both, we just weren’t ready for the snap and the ripped shorts and the bleeding leg. It still came as a shock when Dad died.

I’ve heard that you never truly feel like a grown up until both of your parents are gone. That is true. But on the flip side, you never feel more like a child as when both of your parents are gone. You still wait for someone to mend your shorts and bandage your leg, and then when nobody does, you finally realize it’s now all up to you.

2011 was a really tough year for us, as you know. But what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger, right? So we will take what we’ve learned and hold on to each other a little tighter, wipe the blood off our legs, and move forward.

My best grown-up advice is this: Take care in 2012. Treasure your loved ones. There are alligators out there. And sometimes they DO bite.

Peace,
Sharron, Kirk, Kyle, Claire, and Emily