Thanksgiving 2012

Thanksgiving this year didn't suck.  It was nice, actually.  It wasn't the same as it used to be, but it was still good anyway.  Everyone came to our house and we crowded around 3 tables and had too much sweet potato casserole and too much dressing and way too much dessert, but the turkey was all eaten and so was the corn pudding and everybody left with leftovers, which was the plan anyway.

I made a turkey for the second time in my life, the first time without any help.  It was scary, but I followed Alton Brown's instructions on the Food Network, and I think it turned out okay.  It was pretty enough, but I have no way of knowing how it tasted since I don't eat turkey.  But like I said, there wasn't much left, so I'm guessing it was good.

To have some part of the people we were missing, I used Granny's red pot to cook the green beans and Mimi's carving knife and fork on the turkey.  On my table were blue dishes of Mom's that she got by saving up green stamps at the grocery in the 70s.  She was ready to sell them at a yard sale but I claimed them before she could get rid of them.  We used the table and chairs Dad snagged from OLC years ago, and on the table was a vase of flowers from a hydrangea bush that Uncle CJ started from a cutting.  Aunt Jeri gave it to me when we lived on Bellaire Ave., and I moved it to this house 10 years ago and planted in my back yard.  It blooms more beautifully every summer, and this year, it has been warm enough that the blooms are still on the bush.

I love having parties at my house, especially Thanksgiving.  It is such a pure celebration.  No presents, not much decorating necessary, just food and family.  We come together year after year to say, "Thank you," and to remember how very, very lucky we are to have each other to share a laugh and a story and way too much sweet potato casserole.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Help

Prostrate on the floor,
I beg for mercy.
Hear me, O Lord,
Lift me from my despair
Let me know that there is hope
That a light will shine
That somehow, some way
Peace will come.

On Being the Mother of a Boy

Found these two poems/prayers today while working on a bookmark for the St. X MOMs Club:

Nobody knows what a boy is worth, 

and the world must wait and see; 

for every man in an honored place, 

is a boy that used to be.

-Phillips Brooks

   

And I love this prayer...

Build me a son, O Lord, 
who will be strong enough to know when he is weak 

and brave enough to face himself when he is afraid;

Who will be proud and unbending in honest defeat 
and humble and gentle in victory.

Build me a son, O Lord, 
whose wishes will not take the place of deeds; 
my son, who will know Thee, 
who is the foundation stone, of knowledge. 
Lead him, I pray, not in the path of ease 
but under the stress and spur 
of difficulties and challenge.

Here, let him learn to stand up to the storm. 
Here, let him learn compassion for those who fall. 
Build me a son, whose heart will be clear, 
whose goals will be high; 
a son who will master himself  
before he seeks to master other men, 
who will reach into the future, 
yet never forget his past.

And after all these things are his, 
add, I pray, enough of a sense of humor 
so that he may always be serious 
but never take himself too seriously. 
Give him humility so that he will

always remember 
the simplicity of true greatness 
and an open mind of true wisdom 
and the meekness of true strength.

Then I his mother will dare to whisper, 
I have not lived in vain. 

---Unknown

quoted by General Douglass McArthur

We Spotted the Ocean

Walk on the Ocean
by Toad the Wet Sprocket

We spotted the ocean
at the head of the trail.
Where are we going
so far away?

Walk on the ocean
Step on the stone
Flesh becomes water
Wood becomes bone

Half an hour later
We packed up our things
We said we'd send letters
And all of those little things.

They knew we were lying
but they smiled just the same
It seems they'd already
forgotten we came.

Now back at the homestead
Where the air makes you choke
People don't know you
Trust is a joke

Don't even have pictures
Just memories to hold
Get sweeter each season
As we slowly grow old.

Kyle was playing this cd in the car on the way to school this morning.  It has always, always reminded me of my Irish ancestors who emigrated to the US back in the 1880s.  I will never know how they left. As far as I know, Jane, my great-grandmother, only went back once.  How did she leave?  How did they let her go?

I was looking them up in Ancestry.com yesterday.  Every now and then, I just get on a tear and want to find out all that I can about them.  I can only go as far back as my great-great grandparents, and then they just fall off the map.  I'm not even sure what one of my gr-gr grandmother's maiden name was.  Mimi wrote it down as Kate Ryan in Dad's baby book, but I can't find a Kate Ryan married to Michael Wilson.  I can find a Catherine (Kate) Heffernan married to Michael Wilson, and they have many of the same children as Grandma Jane's brothers and sisters as far as I can find, but I can't find Grandma Jane listed among them.  There is a Kate Ryan married to a William Wilson, which is the name of Jane's brother.  It's all so confusing, and none of it is centrally organized because the British didn't keep good records of the Catholics.  Each individual church has records but none all in one place.  Anyway, I keep looking for information on Kate and Michael and William and Margaret.

All this to say, that as I was driving home today, and listening to this song and thinking about Jane and John and their leaving of Ireland, I also thought of Elisha and Rebecca and John and Sarah and Lucy and George.  They all left what they knew to come to Kentucky when it was young.   Especially Rebecca came to my mind.  She had 14 children, five of them sons.  Again, I think of my own son, and how different, how protected his life is now.

Last weekend, I let Kyle go out with Will on Saturday night.  They met up with some girls and went to Cherokee Park and then out to get food and then back to one of the girls' houses.  He texted me twice where he was and was home by midnight.  I was still nervous until he walked in the door.

Rebecca's sons, on the other hand, would have been out and maybe on their own by age 16.  Certainly they would have been out.  With a gun.  Loaded.  In territory still inhabited by Native Americans who were hostile to the takeover of their lands by white settlers.  With bears and bobcats and snakes around.  And outlaws.  They would probably be gone for days, weeks at a time.  With no phone calls or texts to let her know they were okay.  No GPS to get them home if they got lost.  How did she stand it?  Did she love her children less than I do mine?  Did she maybe not get as attached since their lives were so precarious anyway?  How does a mother raise up a child and then let them go?  I just don't understand.

And how did Catherine and Margaret let their children leave Ireland?  How did Catherine watch most of her dozen kids sail away to distant lands knowing she would probably never see them again?  Certainly the ones who went to Australia were gone forever.  Maybe the ones in America would be back someday, but maybe not.

As my own children get closer and closer to leaving home, I look to my female ancestors and wonder how they did it.  I try to draw strength from them and remember that it is not like it was.  We have phones and internet and cars and planes.  Life is easy.  It is connected.  Distance is not forever anymore.  Even so, how do I let go?

I just wish it would all go away...

Usually I don't want to change my life.  Usually, I am okay with where decisions, chance, fate has placed me.  Today is the exception.  Today is the one day where if I could do it over I would.  Today is the day that if I could go back in time and send Kyle to Belize instead of Appalachia, I would fork over the money in an instant.  I would say, "$1500?  No problem.  Here you go.  Here is the money.  Go change the world for somebody."

But I can't.

I can't.

I can't.

And we are here where we are, grieving today for decisions made over a year ago to go to Appalachia because it was cheaper.  Closer.  Safer, for God's sake, than Central America.

And here we are, Kyle dreaming about drowning, still, forever and ever changed.  A boy is dead.  His parents bereft.  A community remains in shock.  The world is without a star.  My heart is broken over and over again with imagining how it was, how it felt, what it must have been like for my son, my sweet, sensitive boy to watch somebody go under, thinking he was kidding, doing nothing to help, and then realizing it wasn't a joke.  Feeling like it is his fault that this boy is dead, that if he had moved sooner or dove deeper or yelled louder that things would have changed.

Kyle says that if his not going to Appalachia would mean Finoy would still be alive that he would gladly not have gone to Appalachia.  But if Finoy would have died anyway, Kyle says he's glad he was there because it has made him the person he is today.

That may be so.  Kyle may feel like that, but I do not.  I cannot.  I wish with all of me that I would have given Kyle the money to go to Belize.  I wish I could wipe this event from his life.  That I could change history and his fate would be different.

If Kyle had not been there, then maybe Finoy wouldn't have been swimming across Kinniconick Creek at the exact moment that the current had the ability to pull him under.  Maybe he would still be alive, had gone to Spain, graduated top of his class at school, headed to college and was on his way to becoming the Jesuit priest he had planned on being.  His parents would be happily living their lives watching their children grow, marry, make lives for themselves, better the world.

If Kyle had not been there, maybe Kyle wouldn't be playing guitar in his band or volunteering so much or planning on going into counseling someday.   He might be working at Paul's instead of lifeguarding. He might still be playing football.  I would not be taking him out today to do random acts of kindness in memory of a boy he hardly knew who died before his eyes in a creek full of people having fun.

If Kyle had not been there, there would be a lot fewer tears shed and a lot less sleepless nights.  Life would have been different.  Easier?  Who knows, but I could do without this weight pressing down on me, on Kyle, at odd times.  I could do without watching him disappear into his video games to escape his memories.  I could do without worrying so much about what might happen to one of my kids when they leave the house.  I could do without the guilt that I feel because my child is alive and someone else's is dead and I am so, so glad that the grieving parent is not me.  I could do without the shame at the waves of relief that I felt the moment that I heard, "One of the kids on the mission trip drowned today.  Thankfully all the boys from St. X are okay..."  Thank you, God, that it wasn't my child who died!

Yes, I could do without all of this.  I would happily pay that extra $1000 to make this all go away.  I'd pay $2000, $5000, $10,000...Hell, how much do you want?  How much?  Because if I could make it go away I would.

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,