The Dedalus Log

“A hero ventures forth from the world of common day
into a region of supernatural wonder.
Fabulous forces are encountered and a decisive victory is won.
The hero comes back from this mysterious adventure
with the power to bestow boons on his fellow man.”
(Hero With a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell: 1949)

“He was a warrior and mystic, ogre and saint, the fox and the innocent,
chivalrous, ruthless, less than a god, more than a man.
There is no measuring Muad’Dib’s motive by ordinary standards.
In the moment of his triumph, he saw the death prepared for him,
yet he accepted the treachery.”
(Dune, by Frank Herbert: 1965)

“His followers called him Mahasamatman and said he was a god.
He preferred to drop the Maha- and the –atman, and called himself Sam.
He never claimed to be a god.
But then, he never claimed not to be a god.
Circumstances being what they were, neither admission could be of any benefit.
Silence, though, could”.
(Lords of Light, by Roger Zelazny: 1967)

New York, New York, a helluva town.
The Bronx is up, and the Battery’s down.
The people ride in a hole in the groun’.
New York, New York, it’s a helluval town!
(Original lyrics of "New York, New York" – Bernstein, Comden, Green. Note change in song by Gene Kelly and Frank Sinatra in the movie, On The Town)



Kathy and I flew home on New Year’s Eve after spending one of the most enjoyable trips in my life in New York City. This was my first visit to Manhattan, and Kathy had been urging me to go for years. Now I understand why! New York matched all the romanticized depictions I’d seen in photographs, movies, and on television all my life. The problem is - how do I write about it? How do I write about five days and four nights in this world famous metropolis they call “the Big Apple”? Do I tell you WHERE we went, WHAT we saw, and HOW we felt? Some people might find that engaging, but I think it would take too long and become a monotonous slideshow of locales (we went here, here, and here; saw this, this, and that, and felt challenged, amazed, and delighted). So how can I keep this account concise, interesting, and not too long? Hmm, perhaps by dividing it into two parts and starting with why it took me so long to go to New York.

I could never understand when friends and colleagues told me how they planned to retire AND TRAVEL. I never got that! Travel has never been a GOAL in itself for me - it was always a means of getting to a particular location TO DO SOMETHING else. I traveled to Mexico City to go to summer school, San Antonio to complete Air Force basic training, San Francisco for a second honeymoon (as well as birthdays and conferences), Portland to attend my nephew Tim’s wedding, Washington D.C. to see my son’s college plays (as well as Billy’s graduation and Kevin’s wedding), Savannah for Eddie’s graduation, Chicago to see my nephew Jeff’s (ill-fated) Broadway-bound musical, and Seattle to visit my cousin Raul. Even the road-trips I took with my high school friends to Big Sur, Monterey, Sacramento, Lone Pine, Mammoth, Death Valley, and Ensenada, were rough and tumble experiences, manly adventures meant to reunite us so we could play cards, tell stories, be silly, and spin dreams. So every time Kathy mentioned Ireland, Italy, or Spain as places we had to go and see, I would always ask WHY? I knew it was the wrong answer the moment I saw the light fade from her eyes and her smile disappeared, but I couldn’t help myself. Even I knew that I was hung up on an unreasonable inhibition (fear of traveling for the sake of traveling), because I always ENJOYED the places I visited. I loved exploring new cities, testing myself on their unique public transportation systems, walking, sightseeing, and discovering historical sites and cultural locations. Kathy knew, and I knew, that I would inevitably enjoy Ireland, Spain, Italy, or New York, if I ever got there. But I couldn’t overcome my deep-seated phobia of traveling for the sake of traveling by willpower alone - I needed A REASON. Luckily, an opportunity presented itself this year that offered a strategy around my inhibition and a solution to a bigger problem.


Kathy was turning 60 in December, and she was having considerable difficulty dealing with that date and number. Last summer, without giving me any suggestions or ideas, she announced that she did not want a big party (surprise or planned), but expected something special for her birthday. Suddenly her birthday became an overwhelming burden of finding the right present and a way to celebrate without making it a big deal. In puzzling out this dilemma, I happened to remember Kathy’s wry observation that I tended to buy gifts for others that I secretly wanted for myself (especially in the genres of electronics, art and literature). It struck me that if I reversed this egocentric tendency I might discover the perfect gift. Kathy loved to plan and book trips, and travel, and I hated to go without a reason – so what if her birthday and gift became my reason? Eureka, I’d found it! That night I told her that I wanted to take her anywhere in the United States for her birthday. All she had to do was choose the location. She chose New York and my problems were solved (along with a trip that subconsciously I suspected I might enjoy).


In evaluating this trip, the main reason it worked so well was my travel agent/traveling companion. Kathy was a marvel! She booked us into the Essex House, on Central Park South overlooking the Park, with a view of the Upper East Side skyline; and scheduled the stay between two storms. Our sojourn occurred during the five most beautiful days in December (clear and cold on Sunday, and snowing on the Thursday we left). She was also the perfect guide and partner in a city that was new to me, but familiar to her. Kathy had been to New York on three previous occasions, so she had a conceptual layout of the city’s grid and its sights. All I knew was the line from the musical On the Town: “the Bronx is up and the Battery’s down”. A photographic tour of our trip can best be seen in my Flickr album (see 2010-12-27 to 31: New York City). But how Kathy and I handled unexpected situations in New York showed how much in sync we were during the trip, and why we managed to enjoy it privately and in tandem. We adapted and improvised whenever we were confronted with deadlines and obstacles. We also accommodated our personal preferences and sought spontaneous discoveries.


Through our jobs and experiences, Kathy and I have learned that no detailed plan of action (“with all the ducks in a row”) ever comes off as conceived. So, rather than preparing a fixed and tight itinerary of where to go, what to see, and what to do on this trip (which many people expected us to do), we simply generated a mental list of ideas, wishes, and possibilities that sounded interesting (For example, we opted not to pre-purchase Broadway show tickets, but decided to wait until we arrived and settled in). Our initial overarching idea was the possibility of catching 5:30 mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral on 5th Avenue on the evening we arrived. This sounded like such an illusionary, romantic idea (dependent on so many variables), that it captured my imagination at once. It also added a heightened awareness to our arrival time, the means of transportation to the hotel, and our check-in time.

We flew Virgin America Airlines, and it was delightful. Everything on the plane looked new and efficient. We had individual viewing screens and free wireless fidelity (Wi-Fi) was available on the flight. Not only could we check our email and other Internet sites on my laptop, but I could also monitor the plane’s exact location across the United States on a GPS map on my monitor. The trip was uneventful, aided by a strong tailwind that got us to JFK International Airport in a speedy four-hour flight, at 3:00 P.M. I assumed we had plenty of time to recover our baggage, get a cab, reach the Essex House, and catch mass at St. Patrick’s – until I experienced midtown traffic in New York. Catching a cab at the airport was no problem, and the initial drive along the Long Island Expressway was sufficiently steady to give me time to take photographs along the way. I quickly stopped worrying about being taken for a tourist, and became resolved to take as many interesting pictures as I could. The cabbie even got into the swing of things by alerting me to a fabulous shot of the Manhattan Downtown skyline at sunset. However, all our momentum stopped once we crossed the river and traversed the Queens Midtown tunnel into New York. I finally understood why New Yorkers, when pressed for time, would abandon their taxis and walk. The clock was ticking, and we weren’t moving – despite our incredible cartographic proximity to Central Park. The only thing that saved us from fixating and worrying about the traffic, time, and our likely disappointment in not catching mass, was my belief that Mass was a preference, not a requirement. The gridlock conditions gave me plenty of time to study the people, faces, scenery, and local pubs as we inched along the streets. Kathy pointed out avenues, plazas, and famous locations, and I was comforted by the knowledge that if we arrived too late for Mass, we would simply do something else – no big deal. But we did arrive on time. At 4:30 we found ourselves across the street from the Essex House, on Central Park South. The cabbie entertained the idea of a U-turn for a mil-a-second and then announced that he would go around Columbus Circle to be on the right side. We were appreciative of the idea, but said no thanks. It was faster to settle the bill and roll our luggage across 59th Street at a crosswalk than to keep driving.




We registered and settled into our 34th floor room by 5 o’clock. The views from our windows were unbelievable. I could see Central Park, the Ice Rink, and the Upper East Side of New York from one, and Midtown East from the other. The concierge assured us that St. Patrick’s was only a quick walk away and we set out, well bundled in layers of clothing to shield us from the temperatures that were swiftly descending with the sun. I naively expected no further delays, until we came to the first big crosswalk on 58th Street and 5th Avenue. There was a wall of humanity pressed at each corner, with more people stacked behind. How could so many bodies fit on a sidewalk! When the lights changed the pedestrian intersection became a battleground of colliding infantry, charging across the street. Somehow they merged, and citizens found pathways to the other side. It was incredible. I had never seen so many people in one small place. This scene repeated itself at every intersection, until we came to a complete halt and no one moved – pedestrian gridlock. How was it possible? After about 10 minutes of sidestepping and backtracking we came upon the crime scene that caused the delay. An ambulance was departing and police were just beginning to take down the yellow caution tape they had strung across the street and sidewalk. Welcome to New York on a Sunday evening.




My irritation at the jostling and bumping I received, and impatience with the delays, were dispelled by my fascination at watching Kathy glide through the offending traffic. Kathy’s typically cautious style of walking disappeared on the sidewalks of New York. I simply followed her speeding wake as she maneuvered the uneven curbs, switch-backed from one side of the street to the other, and skimmed the edges of the streets to speed our progress down 5th Avenue. Suddenly we found ourselves in front of a steep cement staircase, towering above us.
“This is it,” Kathy announced proudly. “This is St. Patrick’s Cathedral!”
The ascending stairs was crowded with people standing and waiting, or pointing. “Did we miss Mass?” I asked, confused by the number of people outside the building.
“No,” she replied, remarkably sure of herself. “It should just be starting now. Let’s go in”.
The church was packed. Not only were the pews filled to capacity, but the narrow aisles were crammed with tourists streaming to the front of the altar in one line, and then retreating back in another. We squeezed into a slight gap in a pew and took stock of our surroundings. St. Patrick’s is an awesome American Cathedral. Its towering pillars, high, vaulted ceilings, and gleaming, suspended chandeliers gave the grey walls an alabaster glow. The holly green and scarlet red of Christmas wreaths and decorations punctuated the view, acting as a reminder of the ending Advent Season, and the wintry temperatures outside. We peeled off our gloves, coats, and scarves, and soon relaxed into the rhythmic comfort of the Catholic liturgy and the priest’s soothing homily. After communion, I almost forgot that I was in a strange city.


Upon exiting the Cathedral and walking along 50th Street, I thought I was acclimatizing myself to the throngs of people on the sidewalks until we reached Rockefeller Center.
“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, when I saw what lay ahead. There was a wide, oceanic expanse of covered, bobbing heads, and bundled, jostling torsos from one end of the plaza to the horizon beyond. There was little room to maneuver or advance. The only sense of space was in the open sky above that was arrayed in front-lit, towering buildings, cascading holiday lights, and gleaming, Christmas trees. I felt a momentary wave of claustrophobia and then dismissed it. You had to love it! If I had known of the biting cold, the pressing crowds, and the frustrating inability to move in this part of town, I doubt that I would have come. But I was here now, and might never return again. I wanted to remember and enjoy this moment. I asked Kathy to pose with the famous Rockefeller Christmas tree in the background, and took her picture. The happy smiles and festive excitement of the people around us seemed to inspire Kathy, and she again surged forward to explore Rockefeller Center, searching the lower levels for the ice rink and restaurant. I traveled in her path-finding wake until weariness slowed me down and I began sending telepathic messages to stop. Kathy must have heard, because when we suddenly broke free of the masses of people descending up us, she made her way back to 50th Street and paused.
“Do these people ever stop coming?” I asked rhetorically. Since Kathy seemed to be channeling the attitude and behaviors of a native, I thought she might have a guess.
“I think Rockefeller Center is a tourist magnet at this time of year,” she said. “Once we get off this street it should get better. What do you want to do?”
We had never discussed our plans after Mass, so this question took me by surprise.
“I don’t know. All I can think of right now are the pubs we passed on the way to the hotel. Do you think we could find one, and sit for awhile.”
“I was thinking the same thing!” Kathy announced, happily. “Let’s get off 50th Street and start looking”.
We passed Radio City Music Hall, and then traveled uptown on 6th Avenue. Although the numbers weren’t as bad as on 5th Avenue, groups of pedestrians continued streaming down on us. By the time we reached 54th Street, I flippantly suggested that we turn right, away from the relentless current of people.
Kathy paused for a moment weighing my idea, and then said, “Okay”. I knew this was a major concession, because Kathy hates moving away from her destination. The Essex House lay uptown and westward, and we would be going backwards. But the Old Dutch Masters of Washington Irving’s time must have been with us, because after walking about 50 yards we saw the welcome sign of “Connolly’s Pub and Restaurant.” It was perfect. We settled ourselves at the bar, ordered drinks from Dennis the Irish bartender, and toasted our arrival in New York. In no time at all, Kathy introduced herself to the owner and Dennis, the Irish bartender, and confessed that we were having a drink after Mass. They laughed (in the lilting way that only Irish Catholics can), and asked us if we had used that line on our parents, without ever going to Mass. I admitted having done so– and was surprised to discover that Kathy had too, only she had been smart enough to pick up a Sunday bulletin to show her parents if they asked for proof.





The evening continued in this improvisational style. When we got back to the hotel and unpacked, dinner became our next brainstorming topic. I recalled a restaurant that Kathy’s brother Mike had recommended in an email as being close to our hotel and reasonably priced. When we checked with the concierge, he gave us a hotel map and agreed that P.J. Clarke's was good and very convenient. Of course, I hadn’t yet learned that in wintry New York, “close and convenient” actually means at the outer edges of comfort and tolerance, and hotel maps are notoriously imprecise. After 30 minutes of shivering explorations of Central Park South and the West Side along Broadway we discovered P.J. Clarke's at Lincoln Center. This pretty much set the pattern of our dining for the rest of the trip. We would pay attention to restaurants we passed in transit, tossing around ideas and inspirations at the hotel, and make last minute reservations. P.J. Clarke's was a great start. We had front row views of the Lincoln Center Music Plaza across the street, and later checked out a plethora of restaurants and tourist sights on our walk home after dinner. We spotted the Mexican restaurant, Rosa Mexicano (where we ate the following day) on our way back to Columbus Circle, and then found ourselves at Time Warner Plaza and Jazz at Lincoln Center. After exploring the Time Warner Building, we ended the evening by walking down 58th Street and having a nightcap at the Oak Room, the famous bar in the Plaza Hotel.




The next day, while having chai and coffee at a Starbuck’s on 6th Avenue, Kathy pressed, “Now what do you REALLY want to do in New York?”
“Generally,” I said, “what we’re doing now - exploring Manhattan as we go along. There are two things I definitely want to do today, ride on the subway and see the Statue of Liberty off Battery Park”.
“That sounds great,” Kathy announced. “That’s what we’ll do first. The rest of the day will take care of itself.”
That’s how we started our first morning in New York. Each day would begin the same way. Kathy or I would state a personal preference over coffee and tea, and then we’d fit it in through the course of the day. I wanted to see the Dakota and Columbia University and Kathy wanted to visit the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I was also curious about Times Square, Greenwich Village, and Central Park, and Kathy wanted to relax and languidly have a cup of tea in the lobby of the Essex House while gazing out at Central Park. We were usually so exhausted by the time we returned to the hotel in the evenings, that dinner and a nightcap was all we could manage.




Getting to Battery Park was easy, but negotiating the New York Subway system was a challenge. The subway system in New York is ancient and doesn’t employ the modern and redundant signs and universally accepted directional symbols that one finds in the metros of Washington D.C. or in western cities. In those places, you can always find a map, diagram, or instructions to guide you. New York may not be as obvious, but the subway system is certainly not hostile. It was not the dirty, grimy, and graffiti-ridden operation portrayed in the movies of the late 80’s and 90’s. With Kathy and I working in tandem, and by taking some precautions, I got the hang of it right away. I bought two unlimited 7-day Metro passes because the recharging machines weren’t as simple or convenient as in Washington or Chicago, and I hated looking like a fool in front of those automatic dispensers. Plus if I made a traveling mistake with a train or station, I could exit at the next stop and get right back on in the correct car or direction, without worrying about fares. Kathy agreed and then interpreted the uptown, downtown language of the signs in the multiple-tracked and confusing Columbus Circle Station (we had been standing in the wrong boarding location until Kathy correctly decoded the signs). The subway system became easier every day, and, other than walking, was our preferred means of travel in the city. Cabs were a frustration, unless you caught them late at night, early in the morning, or at a popular hotel entrance.




High noon at Battery Park proved as scenic and awesome as I suspected, but the buffeting wind and chilly breezes were freezing. Standing at the southernmost point of Manhattan in winter, with the Hudson Bay and its rivers on both sides, was a numbing and inspiring spectacle. We gazed out at the Statue of Liberty, Ellis Island, and the New Jersey and Brooklyn shores, and took photographs. As encroaching hypothermia made speech and movement more and more difficult, Kathy asked, “Whurr da ya wanna go?”
“Sumplaze wurm” I managed through immobile lips.
“Me doo,” she said. “Lez go dezway.” She headed north, toward the nearest buildings and windbreaks. I had no clue where she was going, but I didn’t care as long as it was away from the stupefying cold and frigid winds coming off the Bay. I refused to take off my gloves to open and read a map. We walked by the U.S. Custom House and crossed Battery Park Place, staying as close to the buildings as possible. It was there that I noticed a large group of people assembled around a statue on a median street divider.
“Werr en da Funanshul Desdrick!” I mouthed, when the significance of the iconic charging bull made its way through my benumbed mental synapses. But even seeing how the milling crowds used the gigantic, shiny, bronzed bull as an ideal photographic prop, didn’t entice me away from the protection of the buildings. Only when I followed Kathy into a warm and cozy drugstore on Broadway in search of travel sundries and lotions did blood start flowing to our frozen extremities, allowing touch and sensitivity to return to our lips, fingers, and toes. When we left the store, it was to find a pub or tavern to catch a warm noontime meal. Paradoxically, this deliberate search for sustenance produced one sightseeing discovery after another. We made our way up Broadway, down a glamorous looking alley, and found ourselves on Broad Street. We wandered along the grey, glimmering edifices that seemed to telescope into the heavens, and suddenly we were on Wall Street. In quick succession we saw the entrance façade of the New York Stock Exchange, Nassau Street, and the monolithic front steps of Federal Hall with the beckoning statue of George Washington in front. We stared up at the Trump Building and Bankers Trust Company Building, and realized we were in the gilded courtyard of the rich and powerful, all dressed-up for Christmas and the New Year. The only redeeming image near this vast bastion of corporate wealth was the dark, looming presence of Trinity Church’s tall steeple, squeezed between the towering megaliths on Wall Street. After taking my quota of fiscal photos, we retreated back to Broad Street and found Bobby Vann’s Steakhouse, stopping in the bar for our own version of a stockbroker’s lunch - a Cosmopolitan and a Black and Tan, followed by a delicious French Onion soup.




During our warm, extended lunch we developed our plans for the afternoon. Together we would see Trinity Church and then subway back to Columbus Circle, where I would go exploring the Dakota and Central Park on my own, and Kathy would return to the hotel and relax. Trinity Church affected me on many levels. A glowing Nativity crèche reminded us of the Advent of the Messiah and his promise of Peace, and the antiquity of the church reflected New York’s gigantic footprint on American History. New York was the nation’s first capitol and George Washington was sworn in at the nearby Federal Hall (ergo the significance of his statue on the steps). After that first Inauguration, Washington attended the Episcopalian Thanksgiving services at Trinity’s parish chapel, St. Paul’s. But it was the cemetery that gave me pause to think. Leaving the darkened interior of the church, guided only by the ethereal light emanating from the illuminated altar and stained glass windows, I was momentarily blinded by the outside light. As my eyes adjusted to the piercing sunlight, and the reflected sparkle of the surrounding glass facades, buildings, and towers, I saw that I was in a 250-year-old graveyard. This resting place of William Bradford, the leader of the Pilgrims of Plymouth Colony, Alexander Hamilton, and Albert Gallatin, two of the nation’s first Secretaries of the Treasury, was ironically located in the middle of the Financial District, under the very shadow of the American Stock Exchange. I chuckled to myself as I photographed the weathered and fading tombstones, decorated with Christmas wreaths. What was the lesson here, I wondered to myself, and who was supposed to learn it?




Kathy and I split up at Columbus Circle, and I walked alone along Central Park West, taking pictures of the park and buildings until I came to 72nd Street. I had deliberately avoided visiting Ground Zero, the former site of the World Trade Center and the target of the terrorist attack on September 11, 2001. I still recalled the morning of that willful act of violence and destruction, and how it confused and disturbed the students and teachers of Shangri-la Middle School. I did not want to relive the sensations of that morning, or the questions it generated about mankind and our ability to find reasons and motives to justify murder on a grand scale. Yet I felt compelled to see the spot where a single madman had snuffed out the light and life of a transcendent artist, musician, and dreamer – John Lennon. The gables and deep roofs of the Dakota gave this building overlooking Central Park a brooding and ominous look. I solemnly joined the lines and groups of pilgrims, young and old, who explored and photographed the Dakota, the section of Central Park called Strawberry Fields, and the memorial Imagine mosaic on a nearby pathway. John Lennon, Paul McCartney, and the Beatles had been a significant part of my adolescence and youth during the 1960’s, and it was reassuring to see that their music and appeal continued to attract and influence succeeding generations. Sir James Paul McCartney, the other half of the famous song writing team, was knighted in 1997, but John, by his tragic death in 1980, became immortal. Perhaps that was why I had come to this place and not Ground Zero. John’s mindless murder had the paradoxical effect of giving his songs and their message of Love, Peace, and Brotherhood an impetus that would make them last forever. Calculated acts of hate and terror only generated momentary (but deep-seated) fears. I preferred to imagine that one day the policies of our nation would not be guided by acts of war and terror, but work constructively for peace and harmony. That would be something.




I walked through Central Park and along 5th Avenue back to the hotel. There I spotted Kathy sitting by the lobby window of the Essex House, finishing the New York Times crossword puzzle for Monday. I watched her there for a long time as she sipped her tea, looking languidly at the steady flow of traffic and pedestrians along Central Park South. She looked quite at home in New York and I was glad to be there to share it with her.




To be continued………

If you are interested in the complete photo album of our trip to Manhattan, check my Flickr account at: 2009-12-27 to 31: New York City.

This is a test post from , a fancy photo sharing thing.

And when my mind is free
You know a melody can move me,
And when I’m feeling blue
The guitar’s coming through
To soothe me.
Thanks for the joy that you’ve given me.
I want you to know I believe in your song,
And rhythm and rhyme and harmony.
You helped me along
Makin’ me strong.

Oh, give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n roll
And drift away.
Give me the beat boys and free my soul
I wanna get lost in your rock n roll
And drift away.
(Drift Away - written by Mentor Williams & sung by Dobie Gray: 1972.)

On the evening of October 24, 2009, Kathy and I attended a special Saturday mass at the Cathedral of Our Lady Queen of Angels in Los Angeles. As the priest was concluding his homily, I noticed Kathy’s eyes wandering to her right and coming suddenly alive in recognition.
“There’s Marilyn,” she whispered with a radiant smile, raising her arm to attract attention.
I followed her gaze to see a spry and erect, midsized woman with short graying hair, combed to the side. She wore a boldly bright blouse that made her look ten years younger. It looked like a feminine version of a festive Hawaiian shirt, and not something one expected a nun to wear on a formal occasion. But Marilyn never dressed the way I thought a nun was supposed to dress. Sister Marilyn dressed like Marilyn Rudy, a Berkley radical and Jubiliarian of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ), with 53 years of dedicated service. Her eyes lit up with a smile when she recognized Kathy, and she and her companion made their way to join us in the pew.
“Hi Kathy, hi Tony,” she whispered huskily in greeting. “I didn’t think we’d make it”. She quietly introduced us to her friend, Sr. Maureen, and gave us each a hug and a peck on the cheek.
“The priest said some wonderful things about you and your work in his homily,” I said proudly under my breath.“Oh really”, Marilyn said in surprise. “That’s nice”. That simple, unaffected reply was Sister Marilyn’s typical response to praise and adulation.

 

Kathy and I were there that evening to honor the work and spirit of Sister Marilyn Therese Rudy, CSJ, an old friend, teacher, mentor, and model to each of us for over 40 years. Actually, Kathy knew her longest (41 years) – meeting her as a student at Mount St. Mary’s College (MSMC), when Marilyn taught undergraduate History. I didn’t meet Marilyn until she was the Social Studies Department Chair at St. Bernard High School and I was hired to teach U.S. History in January of 1972. We each developed separate and distinct ties with Marilyn during the early years of our relationship, and were not introduced to each other until we accepted invitations to a Seder Dinner at the CSJ’s Westchester apartment/convent in 1973 (see You Look Wonderful Tonight). Since that evening 36 years ago, Kathy and I maintained a combined relationship with Marilyn that stayed constant through courtship, marriage, children, and careers. However, we always considered her our PERSONAL friend first, and our MUTUAL friend second, and we would occasionally banter about who knew Marilyn best. Kathy always won because she knew her earliest and stayed actively in touch with Marilyn through MSMC Alumnae friends and her own membership as a CSJ Associate. It was through these connections that we learned that Marilyn was being honored as a 50-year “Jubilarian” in 2006, and one of the recipients of the CSJ Charism Tribute in 2009. These functions were “automatic acceptances,” and we made a point of attending. But they were usually large and formal affairs, with too many other friends, associates, and family members in attendance, so we rarely had a chance to really sit, relax, and talk about everything – like in the old days. In fact, the last times I remember talking with Marilyn for any great length was our visit during her residence at La Casa de Maria in Santa Barbara in 1999, and a chance encounter at the Religious Education Congress last February, 2009.

For the remainder of the mass, which preceded the reception, dinner, and tributes that followed in the banquet hall of the Cathedral complex, I found myself studying Marilyn. She looked remarkably vibrant and youthful standing next to me in her floral print blouse. The celebrant’s comments about Marilyn’s work and commitment to religious life, education, social justice, and social service reminded me of all that she had accomplished in the time I’d known her. When we drove up to visit during her residence at Casa de Maria, she had retired from active social work and was studying Organic Gardening and Earth Harmony. For reasons I couldn’t define, this new direction in her ministry greatly irritated me, and I brought it up at the first opportunity.
“I can’t believe a Berkley grad and social activist is learning how to garden!” I announced dramatically, once Kathy and I had related our current family and job information. “What exactly does a New Age Master Gardener do?” I added sarcastically.
Marilyn crooked her head sideways and gave me a curious smile. “You’re really having a hard time accepting this, aren’t you?” She did not say it accusingly or angrily, but as a simple point of observation. Her gentle smile and calm manner took me back to the lunchroom in the St. Bernard Faculty Lounge during my first years of teaching. There she would listen to my vocal frustrations at mastering the Inquiry Learning method of teaching social studies and establishing effective classroom discipline. I expected a department chair to have all the answers, but Marilyn never prescribed her own solutions to my problems. Rather she would listen, ask questions, reframe my difficulties, and only then offer suggestions and resources. She made me feel that I had solved the problems for myself.
“I seem to recall” she continued, “that we had this same kind of conversation when I first told you and Kathy about my plans to leave teaching and start St. Joseph’s Center”.
“Oh,” I said, caught off guard by this indirect response, and not recalling the conversation. “What did I say?”
“Something about a Thrift Shop not being a practical solution to poverty, and running a store was a waste of my talent”.
“I said that?” I asked in embarrassment.
She nodded and said, “That’s more or less what I remember”.
As a grey morning fog lifts to reveal the verdant grass and bright garden beneath, so the memory of that time reappeared in my mind. I’d forgotten how betrayed I felt that Marilyn was leaving a craft I was still trying to master. She was so good at teaching and motivating students, that I saw her decision as a waste of her intellectual abilities. I said so - and Marilyn heard me out. Then she gently explained what a religious vocation meant to her as a CSJ and how she could no longer teach religion and social justice in high school or college without practicing it. She felt the call to move from the theoretical to the practical, from ideas to action. I listened - and her passion and determination won me over. Kathy and I became two of the center’s earliest supporters and volunteers. I met Sister Louise Bernstein, Marilyn’s partner in the storefront venture when we helped paint the interior and the outside fence. After the founding of the center, I came to view Marilyn as a model of what educators and religious members should become – activists in addressing social wrongs and fighters against political and religious injustices. That she was a CSJ only made her more special. Sister Marilyn came to define what I thought a nun should be and do: Choose the religious life after experiencing a full, secular education at the finest university in California. Train and become a mentor high school and college teacher and administrator. Establish a brick and mortar center serving the social justice and advocacy needs of the poor, the hungry, the powerless, and the homeless.
“Well, okay,” I admitted, resuming our conversation in Casa de Maria. “Maybe it took me awhile to get used to the ideas of you as a social worker, but I did – and you were great! But I don’t get this gardening thing,” I exclaimed, indignantly. “It sounds like your abandoning everything you’ve accomplished. You’re too young to retire!”
“Don’t worry, Tony”, she said, laughingly. “I’m not retiring. I’ve truly become very interested in the ecology of the planet and finding harmony with agriculture and gardening. I intend to be very active and involved for a long time. Sisters don’t retire,” she added with a twinkle in her eyes “like public school principals do.”

As we left the Cathedral after mass, Kathy and I quickly lost sight of Marilyn when more and more people approached and spoke to her. Many guests were arriving now, so we made our way to the reception area for some wine and cheese before dinner. Kathy recognized many of the CSJ sisters and guests from her connection to Mt Saint Mary’s College and the CSJ Associates. I entertained myself by rubber necking for the few nuns I knew and reading the program for the evening. The purpose of the evening was to recognize 5 Sisters of St. Joseph for their dedication and commitment in serving the physical and spiritual needs and concerns of the poor and underserved. The event was called a Charism Tribute because it honored these sisters for uniquely practicing the Charism of their community. This is a word that I’d heard Kathy use on occasion, but never really understood until that night. In researching the word on my own, I found one explanation by Sister Sue Torgersen, CSJ, and Director of Vocations, which seemed to make sense:

“Each religious community is a special blessing in our church, with its particular mission, spirituality and flavor. Religious communities share so much in common with each other, and yet, each one has its own unique spirit, or Charism. All communities are called to manifest the Gospel to our church and world, but the Holy Spirit has led each one to grow in its own unique way in reflecting Jesus’ Good News. Hand in hand with your outer journey exploring various religious communities, will be your inner journey of identifying your own unique spirit. When you find the community you feel especially drawn to, you will have found something in yourself. You see the spirit of those community members is the same spirit that has been present within you all through your life. At a certain point, you will know that your discernment journey has reached a conclusion when you, through your sense of joy and peace, recognize a ‘kinship in grace’ with one particular community”.

I found a simpler definition in an online dictionary: “Charism (from the Greek, charis – grace). The divine influence on a person’s heart and its reflection in their life; a power, generally of a spiritual nature, or a freely given gift of the grace of God.
 

I periodically caught glimpses of Marilyn as she glided from table to table, and from friend to friend, smiling and thanking them for coming this evening. Kathy and I were resigned to brief encounters with her, but firmly resolved in taking two or three group photographs. Thankfully we had a longer opportunity to chat in February when we met Marilyn at the Religious Education Congress in Anaheim. Kathy had discovered her working in one of the booths and she called me on her cell phone to join them. I was particularly curious to find out if Marilyn had read the Valentine’s Day blog I had written about Kathy the week before Congress. My story recounted my first meeting with Kathy at the Seder Dinner in 1973. Marilyn and Sister Carol had organized the dinner so we could finally meet (see You Look Wonderful Tonight). So, as soon as there was an opening in our conversation, I asked Marilyn, “Did you have a chance to read my blog?”
“Yes I did,” she said, smiling sweetly. “I loved it”.
Instead of accepting her enjoyment of my story, I was disappointed by the brevity of her answer. “I tried being as factual as possible,” I continued, pressing for further elaboration. “But I’ve discovered that people’s memories sometimes differ. Do you think I got most of it right?”
“Well,” she began slowly, “I don’t quite remember it the same way.”
I was shocked by her response. “How do you remember the evening?” I asked, unsteadily.
“Well,” Marilyn reluctantly continued. “In the story you have Kathy doing all the talking when you first met. I recall you dominated most of the conversation that evening. No one else could get a word in.”
“Really!” I exclaimed. “I did most of the talking? Wow, that’s quite a difference”. Kathy was standing next to me, but she wasn’t taking sides in this conversation. Instead, she smoothly changed the subject and moved on to other topics. As I stood there, pretending to listen, I couldn’t help thinking that Marilyn had done it again. I had asked a question that vainfully begged for an answer I wanted to hear, and she had turned the tables on me with the truth. It seemed as if Marilyn’s gentle words had pulled on some forgotten, rusty lever, and a truer version of my story gradually appeared. She was right. I had projected my behavior onto Kathy in the story. I was the nervous guest who sought to impress the beautiful girl that evening, and I, unconsciously, did so by dominating the stage and conversation. This was the same type of revelation I experienced with Marilyn many, many years before, in my second year of teaching. During a small TGIF party at her apartment/convent one Friday evening after school, I recounted the story of my interview and hiring by Father Dunphy, the principal, and Marilyn. I was feeling smug and confident as a teacher in those days, and my story was based on the assumption that they wisely perceived my potential and took a chance on hiring an inexperienced teacher.
At the conclusion of my story, Marilyn gently clarified, “But that’s not what happened. It was Larry who decided to hire you. You interviewed very well, and the previous teacher gave you a strong vote of confidence, but I wanted to hire a more experienced teacher we’d already interviewed. As it turned out, Larry was right, and everything worked out better.”
I was momentarily stunned. I looked to Larry for a rebuttal, but he only nodded and said, “Marilyn’s right. That’s what happened”.
I wanted to feel hurt and angry, but I couldn’t find a valid reason. Marilyn was my department chairperson, my mentor, booster, and friend.  I couldn’t be angry with her for telling me the truth in such a kind and thoughtful manner.

We did get a few more moments with Marilyn on the evening of the Charism Tribute. We took pictures and were introduced to her relatives and friends. Marilyn described us as the love story she and Carol had initiated 36 years ago, and how we called her the spiritual godmother of our family and children. In reviewing her brief biography and career synopsis in the program, I felt incredibly proud of her life and achievements and thankful that I knew her as a friend. The evening was a wonderful tribute to a great lady whom I loved and admired. I felt an overwhelming desire to remember this evening in a blog; despite my apprehension that Marilyn might tell me something I didn’t want to hear if I asked the wrong question. We kissed her goodbye and promised to see her soon.

Two weeks later, we learned that Marilyn was diagnosed with lung cancer and was beginning treatments. We vowed to visit her at the MSMC House of Studies, but never found the time as family, school, and holiday commitments crowded our calendar in November and December. Our consciences were momentarily assuaged by the upbeat and optimistic reports we received from the CSJ Associates and friends. We felt sure that we had plenty of time to see Marilyn after Christmas and our trip to New York. We were wrong. While in New York, Kathy and I learned that our dear friend Marilyn Therese Rudy died on Saturday, December 26, 2009 (see Obituary - The Tidings). Her condition was more serious than we suspected and it had slowly worsened. After Christmas she required more and more sleep, and her breathing became difficult. Somehow, she still managed to give direction to things she wanted sorted and “assigned” to family and friends. On Saturday morning Marilyn realized that she was dying and she requested and received comfort care. Several sisters were with her throughout the day, praying Marilyn into heaven. Her suffering ceased at about 7:05 P.M. I am so saddened by this news that it is hard to hold back my tears even as I write these words now.

I cannot write of my regrets or the promises I did not keep. My thoughts go back to the last time I saw Marilyn alive and happy, in her delightful floral print blouse. I was pleased that so many people recognized and appreciated her achievements and accomplishments that evening, but I can’t believe that was why they came. The dinner and tributes may have been the prompt or the excuse, but not the reason. Marilyn lived the Charism of her community because she had already received it as a gift from God. She never stopped being a seeker of truth and justice, and her life and actions were models for others to imitate. Marilyn helped me to be a better teacher, husband, and father by her short laugh, her crooked smile, her gentle questions, and her indomitable spirit. Marilyn had a personal grace that matched the Charism of the community of sisters she joined and was a part of. I think I will never see her like again, and I feel blessed that she chose me as a friend.

Father John occasionally used the song “Drift Away” in his liturgies at St. Bernard in 1972 and 1973, the years Marilyn and I worked there together. It is the only song that provides solace when I’m feeling blue over her death. So Mare, thanks for the joy that you’ve given me. I want you to know that I believe in your song. You helped me along, and made me strong. So perhaps one day I’ll be able to let you drift away.

So take the photographs and still frames in your mind.
Hang it on a shelf in good health and good times.
Tattoos of memories and dead skin on trial
For what it’s worth, it was worth all the while.
(Green Day’s Good Riddance - Time of Your Life)



I love my son-in-law. I love my daughter too, but Joe gave me a Christmas gift that I will remember forever. This once-in-a-lifetime experience will go into my life’s storybook, along with other unforgettable moments, such as running a marathon, climbing Mount Whitney, and skydiving. For one afternoon, I was part of an elite group called “The Press”; for three hours I was one of the event photographers, journalists, and commentators who command the sidelines of major athletic competitions and who wear official lanyards labeled Photo or Press. It all came about during an innocent conversation over a Christmas tree.


In December, Joe and Prisa came over to help decorate our Christmas tree. This had become a family tradition once the kids (Toñito and Prisa) left home for separate apartments after college. Toñito would come to put up the lights and Prisa the tree decorations and ornaments (Some times they came together). While Kathy, Prisa, and Joe concentrated on the methodical rhythm of ornament placement, our conversations flowed from topic to topic, covering family, friends, school, and sports. Joe teaches history and coaches softball at Serra High School in Gardena, and Prisa is an English teacher and JV basketball coach at Montgomery High School in Torrance. The previous Friday, Serra had upset the perennial football powerhouse, Oaks Christian High School to win their CIF Division and remain undefeated. It was a tense, nail-biting, overtime struggle that still had the Southern California sports world buzzing. Joe shot game film for the varsity, so he had seen each victory of Serra’s undefeated season. Winning CIF was a huge achievement, but the possibility of a larger goal loomed ahead.
“Hey Dad” Prisa chimed, as she was hanging her favorite “D.A.R.E” ornament on a prominent branch. “If Serra is invited to the State Championships, would you like to go?
“You’re kidding, right?” I countered, thinking she was joking.
“No, really,” Prisa assured me. “The games will be played at the Home Depot Stadium in Carson this year. If Serra’s invited, would you like to go? Joe can get us tickets.”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “I’d love to. It would be great, but do you actually think Serra will go? Aren’t these State Championships strictly invitational games?”
“Yeah they are,” Prisa agreed, “but I don’t see how Serra can miss. Oaks Christian dominated their league and division and went every year. Beating them should get us an automatic invitation to Division III. What do you think, Joe?”
“I think so too,” Joe replied, joining the conversation. “Oaks Christian was ranked number one all season, and we are the first team to beat them in 4 years. We were ranked number 4, so I think we’re in”.
“When will you know for sure?” Prisa asked.
“Tonight,” Joe replied. “In fact, hold on and I’ll check with Mike, the Athletic Director. He’s supposed to text me as soon as he hears, but let me call now”. Joe pulled out his cell phone and stepped into the other room to call.
“Wow, Prisa” I interjected, “it would be so cool to see a State Championship game. I’ve read about them in the paper, but I never imagined I would watch the games in person”.
“You know Dad”, she added pensively, “Joe might even be able to get you a field pass. You could take your camera along and get some great pictures”.
I paused to let her words sink in and said, “Are you kidding me? Can he do that?”
“Sure” she replied confidently. “Joe’s a big part of the athletic program at Serra. I’m sure he could.” At that moment, Joe returned with a wide smile on his face.
“We’re in” Joe announced triumphantly as he returned to the living room. “We play Marin Catholic on Saturday.”
“Great” I shouted. “Congratulations Joe, that’s wonderful. What an experience for the school and the team. Unbelievable!”
“Joe”, Prisa interrupted. “Don’t you think you can get my dad a field pass for the game? He’d love to go and he can get you some great pictures.”
“I don’t see why not” Joe responded quickly. “Mike owes me tons of favors. The tickets won’t be a problem and I’ll talk to him on Monday about the field pass”.
“Great” Prisa concluded. “So I’ll call you later in the week, Dad. Now let’s see about crowning this moment and this beautiful tree with an angel on top”.


The idea of wearing a field pass, walking the sidelines of a State Championship game, and taking photographs of the action was so astounding that I simply compartmentalized it in my mind, and refused to think further about it. My long dead father was a professional photographer. Growing up, I remember him pacing the sidelines, taking photos of Pop Warner football and high school soccer games. He’d wear his navy blue, Venice Athletic Club jacket, with the embroidered “Photo” nametag on his chest. Then, armed with one or two Hasselblad or Rolleflex cameras around his neck or shoulder, my father would stride, yard by yard with the teams on the field, watching the players and the action and shooting pictures. There was something very bold and commanding about his movements and poses. He seemed to mirror the physicality of the athletes on the field; he was part of the action. My fascination with field photographers never ceased. Through college and into adulthood, whenever I went to an athletic competition, I always inspected the event photographers on the courts and sidelines and wondered how it would feel to do what they did. It was a thought I considered impossible – until Wednesday. That night Prisa called me to say that Joe and gotten me a field pass to the State Championship game. I was authorized to photograph the event for Serra High School, with the understanding that the school had first right to use and reproduce any image I recorded. I had become a freelance photographer with a commission to work.





I started to panic when I saw the guarded and secured side entrance with the sign MEDIA on the gate. Wait a minute! I screamed mentally into my head. What was I thinking! I’m no photographer! I was a retired principal and an amateur writer/digital camera owner. I was crazy to think that I could imitate the work of professionals. They’ll expose me as fake and imposter! I tried calming myself as we walked toward the gate. Meeting Prisa at her home and driving together to the Home Depot Center had, at first, managed to distract me from the growing sense of foolishness over what I was attempting. She also re-energized my original excitement and nervous enthusiasm when handing me with the official photo lanyard. Laughing at the tentative manner I held it, she encouraged me to enjoy the experience on the field and “just have fun!” But walking toward this segregated entrance with my camera gear strapped to my side, I was losing heart. The restrictive sign was a clear indication that I would be alone on the field. On that busy sideline, I would be an isolated stranger in a strange world of officials, players, coaches, and professional media personnel of all types.
“Now remember dad,” Prisa said, as if reading my mind and sensing my dismay. “You’ll have Carlos there, so just stick with him and watch what he does. He won’t let you mess up”.
“Yeah, you’re right” I said, breathing a sigh of relief. “Carlos will be there, won’t he?”
While driving over to the stadium, Joe had called Prisa from the playing field to announce that he had discovered her cousin Carlos among the press corps and photographers. Since graduating from college in 2007 (see Carlito’s Way: Culmination), my nephew Carlos was pursuing a career in the challenging profession of photography and photojournalism. His committed and enthusiastic pursuit of this difficult dream was admirable, and I really respected him. Prisa suspected he might be at this game because he usually covered a lot of the local high school and college sporting news. Joe’s call confirmed his presence. I felt a modicum of comfort knowing I would know someone on the field. If nothing else worked out, at least I’d have a chance to see Carlos working at his trade. Prisa and I separated as I went through the Media gate and she proceeded to the General Admission entrance.




There is a loud, indistinct hum that fills the stands of a sporting venue. It’s the nervous chatter and commotion of thousands of people waiting anxiously for the beginning of a contest or spectacle. But it lessens and slowly fades as one travels down the descending stairs of the stadium. By the time I reached the brightly vested attendant and showed her my pass, the crowd noise was gone. Stepping onto the track, I felt as though I’d walked through a transparent membrane that sealed me off from the distractions and anxieties of the real world. I was in another dimension. The only sounds I heard were the isolated shouts of the team captains directing the warm-up exercises and the calls of the assistant coaches. Everyone else was strangely muted. Thankfully, Joe snapped me out of my paralyzed trance by suddenly materializing by my side.
“Hey Tony,” he called out, giving me a pat on the back and wide bear hug. “You made it, great! How are you doing?” He led me about, introducing me to a variety of coaches and school staff members. Following him on the field gave me a chance to inspect this new world and get my bearings. The teams were separating and moving to their respective sides for drills and the coaches were huddling to confer. We scanned the stands together until we spotted a waving Prisa and waved back.
“Carlos is in that group over there,” Joe said, pointing at a pack of cameramen and photographer standing at the southern end of the field. He excused himself and left me for his long climb up the stands to the press box and I started exploring the field on my own. I would spend approximately three hours in this eerily subdued space at the bottom of the stadium. In those heightened minutes I would experience three sensations during the course of the game: a sense of unity with the press corps, a growing confidence at a new craft, and the relativity of time in an athletic competition.




By virtue of my field pass I was identified as a member of the media. As such I was authorized to record the images I saw, and note my impressions. The next part was more difficult. I needed to join and become a part of the fourth estate, the band of photographers, cameramen, journalists, and reporters gathered at the southern goalpost and along the sidelines. The prospect of this meeting was intimidating. I was sure they would spot me as a fraud and laugh me out of their presence. Thankfully I spotted Carlos right away and walked toward him. When he saw me, he nodded his recognition and waited for me to join him. He was dressed in the same casual, uniform as his colleagues. They were a casual collection of neutral-colored tee shirts, shorts, and jeans, with extra cameras draped around their necks or strapped to their waists. They balanced large cameras with behemoth telephoto lenses on single-legged mounts. The television reporters and commentators stood out with in their expensive suits and fashionable clothes and styles. The closer I got – the more insecure I felt. Carlos dispelled that anxiety with a firm backslap and hug, and a warm smile.
“Hi Tony,” he said, “welcome to the club”.




Carlos welcomed me and began introducing me to his colleagues and friends. There was no reluctance or hesitation in his words or actions. I was his uncle, shooting photos for Serra. By simply listening I quickly realized that these photographers represented a wide variety of clients and motivations. Carlos was shooting photos for the San Francisco Examiner who covered Marin Catholic. Another photographer was independently taking pictures of Robert Woods, a Serra player he had covered from Pop Warner football, and who was going to USC on scholarship. Along with their equipment and dress style, they also shared a remarkable disinterest in all the traditional pre-game festivities that surrounded the game. They were there on business and cared little about the sights and stories that were unfolding on the field. They didn’t bat an eye, or pause their discussions on cameras as eight overly excited cheerleaders exited the tunnel carrying a huge, over-sized banner. Although it felt cool being one of these “photogs” and lounging with them, swapping stories and the latest gossip, my curiosity was driving me crazy. The compulsion to snoop around for myself was forcing me to accept my amateur status and start recording the fascinating scenes that were unfolding in the tunnel, the track, and on the field. I realized also that despite my novice status, inexperience, and inadequate equipment (my Canon T1i with 200m lens was Lilliputian in comparison to the monstrous digital cameras and telephoto lenses used by the professionals), my “official” field lanyard gave me a cloak of invisibility. If I moved slowly and confidently, I could go anywhere on the field and shoot anything I wanted. I excused myself from Carlos and his friends and assumed a strategic position at the mouth of the field tunnel. There I captured the menacing approach of the Serra players from the darkened cavern and their charging onto the gridiron. Moving quickly to another location, I also caught them bursting through the giant banner, which two cheerleaders held aloft while balanced on the shoulders of four confederates. However, the real test of my on-field confidence came at the singing of the national anthem. From the sidelines I’d photographed a trio of Serra students being escorted to the center of the field, where they began singing. When I saw another photographer positioning himself for a better angle, I impulsively broke from the pack of photographers and moved to the center of the field. Cap in hand and walking carefully and deliberately, I glided to the center of the gridiron and – in front of thousands of saluting spectators in the stands - began snapping pictures of the singers.




My freedom on and around the field came to a thunderous end when the game started. From that point, time and speed changed, and my actions became very restricted. The sidelines became my only area of operation because the size and magnification of my camera prevented me from using the end zones to wait for shots to develop in the center of the field. I needed to parallel the movements and actions of each play, and follow the rhythms up of each team. Fortunately, Carlos had pointed out the deadline – the chalk markings over which photographers and journalists were prohibited from crossing. Once the game started and plays began moving from sideline to sideline, I learned why.



While handicapping the teams earlier, Prisa labeled Serra as the odds-on favorite to win because of their superior strength and talent. She also mentioned speed.
“Everything speeds up at this level of play,” she said.
This comment about the velocity of high school players also applied to the flow of time on the field and its unnatural swiftness. From the first kick-off to the last run up the middle of the line, everything happened quickly. The sensation reminded me of the first four downs in my own debut Pop Warner football game as an offensive right guard. My heartbeat quickened, the bodies around me moved faster, and everything happened in instantaneous bursts of chaos. This feeling of acceleration was heightened even more by Serra’s first play from scrimmage. A quick pass to Robert Woods, a wide receiver, resulted in a 67-yard touchdown run. In what seemed short spurts of hurried, violent action, followed by quick huddles, the first half came to an end with the score tied at 14. Prisa and I rendezvoused for a halftime snack and recap of the game. Any thoughts of spending the second half watching the game from the stands with her disappeared as I described my experiences. I wanted to return to that special place on the field. With a second wind, I was better acclimatized to the speed and I felt in synch with the flow of the game. I anticipated the plays better and followed the action through my lens viewer instead of reacting to what I saw with my eyes. I even found myself inching past the deadline Carlos had pointed out - until a sweeping Serra quarterback was shoved out of bounds and almost ended up in my lap. By the time I looked up at the scoreboard again there were only about two minutes left in the game. I photographed the clock and recorded the score and the time.




The game ended with Serra winning 24 to 20. The unreal relativity of time also ended when field personnel and state officials swept over the gridiron to congratulate the teams and begin the concluding ceremonies. I searched out interesting sights and photographed the team with the CIF Division III Championship trophy.



What more can I say about one of  the best times of your life? Perhaps by hoping it will occur again, but certainly by expressing my undying gratitude to the people who made it possible. I can never thank Prisa, Joe, or Carlos enough. Prisa for dreaming up the idea and believing I could do it; Joe for accomplishing this wonderfully nepotistic feat; and Carlos for his guidance and camaraderie. It was great watching a real photojournalist at his craft in the rarified environment of a football field. And for one brief afternoon, I shared it with him.

Do you hear that whistle down the line?
I figure that it's number forty-nine,
She's the only one that'll sound that way,
On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe.

See the old smoke rising round the bend,
I reckon that she knows the's going to meet a friend.
Folks around these parts get the time of day
From the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe.

Here she comes!
Ooh, ooh, ooh.
Hey, Jim, you better get the rig!
Ooh, ooh, ooh.
She's got a list of passengers that's mighty big,
And they'll all want lifts to Brown's Hotel,
Cause lots of them been traveling for quite a spell,
All the way from Phi-a-del-phi-ay,
On the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe.
(Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe: Warren & Mercer - 1944)

I recruited two traveling companions for my Wandering Wednesdays with the same name - John. One is a long time high school friend who has appeared in previous stories (see tag: amigos), and the other is a younger friend whom I’ve known since he was 8 years old (see Beacons of Light and Gethsemane). Either they had the time and inclination to explore various parts of Los Angeles and Southern California; or they were mesmerized by the siren’s song of German youth singing The Happy Wanderer on my first blog on the subject. Sadly, young John was unavailable for our first excursion, so Elder John and I went alone. Even though our itinerary was crowded, with many places to see and things to do, I had only one real objective. My mission was to have lunch at Philippe’s Original Restaurant on Alameda Street in Los Angeles, home of the Original French Dipped Sandwich. To accomplish that goal we would be spending the day in and around Union Station.

Union Station is the terminal station of the Metro Red Line, and it is within walking distance of many scenic and historical Los Angeles sites. For this trip, we decided to forego our cars and traveled by public transportation. We began our journey at the Metro station nearest my home, the Metro Orange Line at Canoga and Victory Boulevard. John and I left the car at the Park and Ride and boarded the double-joined, orange bus that ran 14 miles along a dedicated transit lane between Warner Center in Woodland Hills and North Hollywood. Traditional bus transportation is notoriously slow, especially in densely populated, downtown areas, where crowded, urban buses inch along through traffic and stop at every intersection and corner. However, the Orange Line, is an expressway-coach that travels swiftly on a paved-over, former railway route, with controlled lights at intersections, and designated station-stops. The end of the line was at the North Hollywood (NoHo) Metro Station on Lankershim Boulevard. There we descended into the bowels of the earth via a steeply plunging escalator and boarded a Red Line Coach heading to the city. The southern route took us through Universal City, Hollywood, Pershing Square, and the Civic Center, to the terminus point at Union Station.

Union Station was built in 1939 and it originally served the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway, and the Southern Pacific and Union Pacific Railroads. It is a marvelous structure that combines Dutch Colonial architecture, with Mission Revival and Streamline Modern styles. Parkinson & Parkinson, the architectural firm that designed Los Angeles City Hall, drew the plans of this historical building. John and I took our time walking around and taking pictures of the enclosed garden patios, the waiting room, and the cavernous corridors covered in travertine marble and tile. John’s erstwhile attempts at a time-lapsed photograph eventually caught the attention of a security guard (who had him sign a liability waiver) and a commuting tourist who was fascinated with his German camera.

Exiting the towering building, we crossed Alameda Street to the oldest part of downtown Los Angeles, Olvera Street. Calling it a “street” is misleading; Olvera Street is really a walkway or expanded alley that was named after Agustín Olvera, a prominent local judge, in 1877. There are 27 historic buildings lining Olvera Street, the most notable being the Avila Adobe and Sepulveda House. In 1930, it was converted into the colorful Mexican marketplace that tourists see today. On this trip, John and I did not spend much time shopping. We moved quickly past the festively festooned stalls and kiosks, made a cursory detour into the Avila Adobe, and soon arrived at the intersection of Cesar Chavez Boulevard and Alameda Street. There we got a scenic look of the U.S. Post Office – Los Angeles Terminal Annex.

As a child I remember driving to this ornate building to pick up my Uncle Charlie, who worked there as a postal clerk one Christmas holiday season (on that occasion he told me that my Aunt Helen worked in the towering City Hall building, turning the evening beacon that flashed red and white all night). This was also the place where UCLA students, seeking the early processing of their class schedules for the following quarter, dropped off their registration packets and quarter payments, so they could be postmarked at midnight. Los Angeles Terminal Annex was built in 1940, and it shared the Mission Revival design style of Union Station. Across the street from the Post Office lay our lunchtime goal, Philippe’s Original Restaurant.

Philippe’s was originally established in 1908, and the restaurant claimed to have created the “French Dipped Sandwich.” According to legend, in 1918, when the owner, Philippe Mathieu, was making a sandwich, he inadvertently dropped a sliced French roll into the roasting pan filled with juice still hot from the oven. The customer, a policeman, said he would take the sandwich anyway and returned the next day with some friends asking for more “dipped sandwiches”. The restaurant relocated to its current location on Alameda and Ord Street in 1951, and it remains a storied and busy, cafeteria-style restaurant. Despite living in Los Angeles all my life, it was only as a college student working at ADT Burglar Alarm Company on Flower Street that I was introduced to Philippe’s and a French-dipped sandwich. My friend Jim, and his father George (see Friends and Tears in Heaven) took me there in 1969. I remember it clearly, because I had never tasted horseradish sauce until I put some of Philippe’s (Hot) Mustard on my sandwich. The pungent chemical reaction traveled straight up my nose and paralyzed my brain for 5 minutes. The restaurant has changed little since that day. A few more rooms were added upstairs, but the eatery still had sawdust on the floor, and long, but quick-moving lines at the counters. That afternoon, another of George’s sons and I stood in line and ordered two beef, French-dipped sandwiches, chips and drinks. We ate them on high stools next to perched wall-counters, in a cool and relaxing side room of the restaurant.

Exiting the restaurant refueled, refreshed and renewed, John and I decided to explore Chinatown, before returning to Union Station. It was only a short distance away, and it held many exciting, childhood memories. We traveled up Ord Street to North Broadway Ave, and then walked two-and-a-half long blocks to Chinatown Central Plaza. Being Mexican-American, I never considered local tourist attractions like Olvera Street or Grand Central Market as exotic, or especially picturesque. Mexico was part and parcel of my standard, cultural environment in Lincoln Heights, Boyle Heights, and East L.A. However, Chinatown was something else. This was a truly strange and magical location, filled with unique colors, costumes, and designs. The shops in Chinatown were bursting with marvelous toys and tools (I had never seen so many back-scratchers in my life). Walking along the crowded sidewalks, passing restaurants, entering enclosed bazaars, foreign markets and pharmacies, and festooned courtyards, I felt I was in the mythical wonderland of my youth. The Chinatown Plaza had not changed at all. After walking through the plaza, John suggested that we catch the Metro Gold Line at College Street and Alameda and ride back to Union Station in comfort.

The Gold Line dropped us at the Vignes Street side (the East side of the tracks) of Union Station. While passing through the wide concourse that tunnels under the train tracks to reach the other side, we walked up one of the ramps to see a train loading its passengers for departure. This was where the fabled trains of the Atchison, Topeka, and the Santa Fe deposited the new wave of “forty-niners” seeking their fame and fortune in the “western goldmines” of Hollywood and Los Angeles. John proposed one more stop before returning home on the Metro Red Line, and we left Union Station one more time to visit Our Lady Queen of Angels Church, called La Placita.

We left the terminal and, again, crossed Alameda, only this time walking through the wide plaza next to Olvera Street. We then scampered across Main Street to inspect the church directly opposite the plaza (in fact, the church is often referred to by Spanish-speaking residents as La Placita, the “The Plaza Church”). The church was founded in 1814 and dedicated on December 8, 1822. It was officially named after the patron saint of the city, Mary the mother of Jesus Christ, or as she was also known, Nuestra Señora la Reina de Los Angeles (Our Lady the Queen of the Angels). The interior was remarkably both simple yet ornate, and the altar was dominated by 5 large oil paintings of Mary and the Holy Family in a golden baroque façade. After taking a few more pictures we left the church and began our long trek back to the San Fernando Valley.

This was the most satisfying trip so far. The intervals on the buses and metros sped by quickly in animated discussions and observations. Each of us brought our own memories and insights of the places we visited to the talks we had. We agreed that we needed to try John’s time-lapsed photography one more time and also explore the Gold Line into East Los Angeles. So we laid the groundwork for our next trip, and perhaps John the Younger could come along.

I’ve enclosed some photos of our trip, but if you’re interested in a more comprehensive album, check my Flickr account at: 2009-11-17 Metro Tours. If you have any suggestions for trips or events, please don’t hesitate to mention them to me.

The eastern world, it is exploding,
Violence flaring, bullets loading.
You're old enough to kill,
But not for voting.
You don't believe in war, but what's that gun your toting.
And even the Jordan River has bodies floating.

But you tell me,
Over and over and over again, my friend,
Ah, you don't believe
We're on the eve of destruction.

Don't you understand what I'm trying to say?
Can't you feel the fears I'm feeling today?
If the button is pushed, there's no running away.
There'll be no one to save, with the world in a grave.
Take a look around you boy, it's bound to scare you boy.
(Refrain)

Yeah, my blood's so mad, feels like coagulating,
I'm sitting here, just contemplating,
I can't twist the truth, it knows no regulation,
Handful of senators don't pass legislation,
And marches alone can't bring integration,
When human respect is disintegrating,
This whole crazy world is just too frustration.
(Refrain)

Think of all the hate there is in Red China.
Then take a look around to Selma, Alabama.
You may leave here for 4 days in space,
But when you return, it's the same old place.
The pounding of the drums, the pride and disgrace
You can bury your dead, but don't leave a trace
Hate your next door neighbor, but don't forget to say grace.

And you tell me
Over and over and over again, my friend,
You don't believe
We're on the eve of destruction.
Mm, no no, you don't believe
We're on the eve of destruction.
(Eve of Destruction: P.F. Sloan, 1965)
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The caustic, bitterness of the words sounded like screeching fingernails gouging across the dry, hard surface of a blackboard. Glancing quickly to find the source of the irritation, I saw a short, balding man, with light blonde hair that was turning a premature grey. His pale, light-complexioned face was bland, except for an oversized pair of eyeglasses that dominated his features and gave him a scholarly appearance. He spoke to another man sitting across from him. The tableau looked reassuringly benign; something you would except to see in a side booth in the Corner Bakery Restaurant on a chilly weekday morning. They were two 40-ish, middle-aged men, chatting over coffee and rolls before the start of work. But their placid appearance didn’t jibe with the tone of the words they were using. I’d heard the rhythms of those words before. They were echoes of my youth, when I listened to the gruff, staccato barking of fathers and old men complaining to each other at Little League games and picnics. It was the general talk children overheard in bleachers when dads of the same age bemoaned the plight of American society in the early and mid-1960’s. It was the white noise of a generation who had survived a devastating depression, a long and brutal world war, and the forbidding shadow of communist subversion or nuclear annihilation. My childhood friends and I accepted this outlook as a worldview filtered through the lenses of poverty and cynical mistrust of the military and the government. I was shocked to hear it again, coming from two men who were the same age as my youngest brother, Alex. This was not a post-depression, war-weary generation. They were post-modern yuppies who had experienced little turmoil in a peacetime nation, except for the precariousness of over-extended credit and dismal pension prospects. However, their world changed with the 9-11 terrorist attack in New York, and the Recession of 2009. The balding fellow was talking about a movie he saw that weekend, 2012. He called it an apocalyptic movie, which reminded him of old Irwin Allen thrillers, like the Towering Inferno, and The Poseidon Adventure. He said it was a dramatic reflection of how the world was falling apart.

I am not normally drawn to other people’s conversations, but that morning I was shamelessly rude in eavesdropping on the verbal exchanges between two complete strangers. I had just dropped my car off at the dealership for service, and was waiting for a call back from the mechanic. Rather than sitting in the waiting room of the agency I’d decided to have a continental breakfast at the Corner Bakery. I thought I could catch up on my homework in a warm and pleasant location. Instead, I became fascinated by the vitriolic talk I heard from the adjoining table.

“People just don’t get it,” the balding man insisted. “They don’t understand. There’s a lot more to this movie than just special effects. This nation is going to self-destruct by the Election of 2012. We were the last generation to experience the good times. Our economy is falling apart. I call it Obama-nomics, a socialist system where the government tells us how to run our life and our business”.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said his tall companion, biting into a roll and dabbing the sides his mouth with a napkin.
“Have you been following this breast cancer crap?” the short man continued, apparently changing topics. “I can’t believe it. All the hidden facts are finally coming out on healthcare. You see what the government is doing now, don’t you? They are refusing to identify breast cancer in women. The government will decide when you can check for cancer and when you can’t. Breast panels and Obama-care”, he annunciated, snidely, “it’s scary what this nation is coming to”.

The one-sided dialogue stopped as the bakery manager walked by the two men and greeted them.
“Hey Fred” the short man asked, shaking hands. “What’s this I hear that you’re leaving us?”
“Yeah, it’s true,” the manager said shyly, putting his hands into his pockets. “I’m being assigned to the Westwood Store”.
“Well, we’ll miss you Fred,” the tall man added, lowering his cup of coffee. “Is it a promotion?”
“Of course, it’s a promotion!” scolded his short friend. “It’s a chance to get out of this dump! Westwood is the big time; it’s all happening on the Westside”.
“It is a good move for me”, the manager admitted, politely, “but Westwood is actually a smaller store. This bakery does more business, with bigger volume than Westwood. My job will be to increase service and sales”.
“You’ll do great” the tall man insisted.
“Yeah, you’ll fix things up there in no time” the short man conceded. “ Tell me something, though, Fred,” he said, pointing to the 4 coffee dispensers behind him. “How do your guys clean the coffee urns? Do they really scrub them out with hot water, or just rinse them?”
“The guys follow strict cleaning procedures with all containers,” Fred stated in a formal tone, losing his friendly bantering.
“I don’t think they’re doing it” short guy insisted, shaking his head. “I’ve done a taste test, and I can tell you that the coffee from each urn tastes the same. It’s got to be the cleaning. Maybe it’s a language and communication problem with your guys. Those fellows need to learn how to limpiar” he said in exaggerated Spanish. “Cause they’re not washing them correctly”.
“I’ll review the procedures with them,” Fred stated firmly, looking directly into the short man’s blue eyes.
“So you’re moving up and going to Westwood,” the tall man repeated, after the momentary pause.
“What are you going to do about Chief Low-pants?” the short man interjected, not wishing to end this conversation with the store manager.
“Who?” asked the manager, confused by the term and the mocking laughter from the tall man. “Did you say Jay-lo?”
“No,” the short man snickered. “Chief Low-pants, your chef,” he explained. “I call him Chief Low-pants because his trousers are always sagging down to his knees. Doesn’t he own a belt? Doesn’t he know the appearance he gives the restaurant? He looks like some barrio refugee. You don’t want people thinking you run a ghetto operation here, do you Fred?”
The manager blushed at the sneering ridicule, and stuttered for a response.
“Yeah,” he admitted, ruefully. “I’ve talked to him about professional dress and his appearance when he’s working the front of the store. But chefs want to be comfortable when they’re working in the kitchen. You probably saw him during his break”.
“Well, break or not” continued the short guy, “it gives a bad impression. He wouldn’t be able to get away with that look in Westwood, I can tell you that”.

As the store manager ended his conversation with the two men, I tried refocusing my attention at something else. The scornful criticism by the short man was depressing me. I found myself identifying with the manager, busboys, and chef, and trying to quell a rising sense of indignation at this constant barrage of bile. I realized that I didn’t know enough to make judgments about these two men, or reach conclusions about their attitudes and opinions, but I was getting angry. Looking for other distractions, I opened my laptop and logged into the free wireless network. The Internet kept me entertained until a waitress walked by me, coming out from behind the counter to speak to the tall man. Curious over what this aproned, middle-aged woman might have to say to him got the better of me and I strained to hear their conversation.
“Did you have a chance to look at the papers?” she asked.
“Yeah, of course. I said I would,” replied the tall man.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“I think you should wait. Now is not the time to buy”.
“Are you sure?” she insisted
“Look, I’m just trying to do you a favor,” the tall man said, in an irritated tone. “Do what you want”.
“Alright, thank you for your help,” she said, rubbing her hands on her apron. “There are a few more people I need to ask before making a decision, but I appreciate your help”.
“Sure, you do that honey, and can you bring me back a toasted bagel and cream cheese?” the tall man called out, as she walked away.
“You know,” he resumed saying to his partner, “that bitch is going to do the exact opposite of what I told her. She’s a moron. If she’s not going to do what I say, why ask me?”
“I know what you mean” the short man chimed in, adding his own measure of disgust. “I spoke to my dad last Sunday” he said. “My dad just signed a contract for some new job. He’s doing fine, but my brother’s a mess. He’s in way over his head. I told him to bail out, declare bankruptcy, and move in with the folks, but he won’t listen. That’s what’s happening, you know, there are lots of people moving in with their parents. I’ll admit that by-and-large I’m an alarmist, but I see it everywhere: bankruptcies, foreclosures, layoffs, and more layoffs. So far I’ve been lucky. I can be broke today and then make 10 million dollars tomorrow”. He suddenly stopped talking to help two young ladies who were struggling to operate the coffee urn behind him. The interruption gave me a chance to inspect this man who had been doing so much talking. He wore a striped, long-sleeve yellow shirt, with faded jeans. The fitted cut made him look slimmer than I’d originally thought. He moved around the counter with surprising agility.

“I listen to Sean Hannity,” he continued, resuming his seat across from his friend. “He calls himself a credit card deadhead. That’s a person who maxxes-out his credit card and then pays it off all at once or declares bankruptcy. He rides a credit card until it dies, and then walks away. That’s pretty much what I’m doing right now. It’s risky but I’m getting by. It’s tough out there”.
“You got that right,” the tall man added, leaning forward. “I listen to a lot of talk radio and money management is impossible in this economy. Now is not the time to sell, but it’s not the time to buy, either. You don’t know what is going on. I was at Macy’s yesterday. If you want to see how people are hurting, go to Macy’s. You wouldn’t believe their prices! A designer T-shirt runs for $32, right? Well with coupons and discounts you take 75% off and pick it up for $8. Eight dollars! Think they’re hurting? I was shocked. I bought a shirt that usually goes for $108. I paid $48!”

“I don’t know what we’re going to do”, the short man said, shaking his head. “It’s hard to be positive and optimistic when you know you’re going to be making 50 cent an hour for retirement. What kind of a future is that?” He stopped to let a busboy reach in and deposit a plate with an open-faced bagel and a dollop of cream cheese.
“What is this shit?” the tall man cried out, pointing at the blackened bread. “Come on! This thing is burnt to a crisp!
“That is what the cook gave me,” the waiter said in a heavily accented voice. He shrugged helplessly, and then flashed an innocent smile.
“Boy, I tell you”, the short man said, shaking his head and eyeing the bagel. “Conservatism is dying. It makes me sick what is happening to this country”.

The Cisco Kid was a friend of mine
The Cisco Kid he was a friend of mine
(Cisco Kid by WAR, 1971)

I turned off the television set in the Family Room at about 10 o’clock and walked into the study to check my email and see the latest postings on my favorite blogs. They are found as “Bookmarks” on my browser, and I’ve listed them in order of preference. The first six were: The Dedalus Log, Tablesaw, Flor Y Canto, Militant Angeleno, LA Eastside, and Chimatli. As I settled back into my desk chair, looking at the screen, I opened my son’s web log, Tablesaw/Sharpest Blades. A large billboard-style picture of a masked stranger came flying onto the screen. Captivated by the gaudy poster, I read the rest of Toñito’s blog for November 5, 2009.

Is anyone interested in seeing this with me next week?

“Get ready boys and girls for a thrilling episode of El Verde! Meet mild mannered Arturo Sanchez, born as an alien from the not so far away world of Mexico and raised in the good old U.S. of A. All Arturo ever wanted was to live an ordinary life, but after a freak elote accident, Arturo became… El Verde!!!

“Join us as we go back, way back, to see how it all began. This November, TeAda Productions will present THE ORIGINS OF EL VERDE. Watch as Arturo becomes the superhero who fights for truth, justice, and the Mexican-American way! Then watch him battle the evil La Quinceanera with her ultimate plot to destroy the world.

“Yes, El Verde is the live superhero show that’s fun for the whole family. If you’ve never been to an El Verde show before, be sure not to miss this one".

I meant to catch the show in August, but we got all busy. I don’t want to let this one go by.

The flamboyant promotional language was amusing, but Toñito’s invitation was enticing. On impulse, I immediately responded to his blog: “Mi Raza on stage? I’m always up see Chicano or Mexican-American theatre. Just let me know who else is going so I’ll know when (or when not) to laugh. Let’s coordinate dates, because next week looks bad. Dedalus”

Last Saturday, Toñito and I met at Miles Memorial Playhouse in Santa Monica to watch El Verde-Origins. It was just the two of us (a father and son) getting together to watch a local play about a Mexican-American hero in America. I had not shared an encounter this long with my son in months. We had seen each other at numerous family events and occasions, and chatted; but there is no substitute for sitting, watching, listening, and sharing a ballgame, movie, or play with your child, and knowing that you have all the time in the world to talk. That’s what we did that night.

The play was funny and exaggerated, and it provoked childhood images of comic books, cartoons, and Saturday matinee movies. There was nothing really exceptional in the staging or acting, and the story’s premise was absurd, but I smiled and laughed all evening. It reminded me of the campy, over-the-top, 1960’s TV series, Batman. The costuming, dialogue, actions, and music were bright, flashy, and outlandish. One could almost imagine the words POW, THWACK, and KABOOM flashing across the stage, as the heroes and villains fought and chased each other through the sets. Only these characters didn’t look, dress, or sound like your typical American heroes and villains in Gotham City – they were different. These good guys and bad guys looked, dressed, and acted as if they were cast in a Spanish language telenovela, located in East LA. For the space of 90 minutes, I was a kid again; suspending my beliefs and watching an improbable, Mexican-American factory worker transform himself into an urban, barrio crime fighter. El Verde wasn’t “super” because he had no super powers. True superheroes like Superman, The Fantastic Four, The X-Men, and Spiderman, were aliens from other planets or Americans who acquired superpowers. El Verde was just a naively confident and ambitious Mexican-American who wanted to defeat evildoers. He reminded me of the two Mexican-American heroes of my youth, The Cisco Kid and Zorro. In fact, except for the color of the mask and his lack of a sword, El Verde matched El Zorro in mask and suit color (I chose Cisco Kid for my title and epigram because I liked his song by War better than Zorro’s television theme song). It occurred to me, while discussing the merits of the play with Toñito over a late supper, that I would never have seen this production on my own. My son was our family’s guidon, carrying the ancient pennant of our cultural past.

My son Toñito has many admirable qualities. He is smart (tall), talented, logical, artistic, and passionate; and when he puts his mind to a task, he can be relentless. He brought this determination to bear on many of the duties his mother and I assigned him as a youth (athletics and academic achievement), and in the personal endeavors he discovered and pursued on his own (children’s theater, high school drama, and college fine arts). As he grew older, Kathy and I assumed our parental balcony seats to watch his life unfold - curious how this motivation would manifest itself next. We saw it in his involvement in intellectual puzzles and games, and in his committed relationship with his fiancé. However, the most surprising imperative developed from Tony and Jonaya’s understanding that their children would be bi-racial and multi-ethnic. I first became aware of his interest in Mexican and Chicano history, language, and culture, in September of 2008 when another of Toñito’s blogs caught me by surprise (See Cosmic Quest)

Since then, Toñito has continued his quest of learning more about the Mexican-American experience, history, language, and culture in Los Angeles, California, and America. I’ve stayed abreast of his progress through sporadic conversations, but mostly through his blog. In fact, it was while reading his commentaries on ethnic diversity, race, and cultural history that I learned of Militant Angeleno, LA Eastside, and Chimatli, three Mexican-American web journals that chronicle the styles and culture of Los Angeles, and East Los Angeles from a Mexican-American perspective. We had once talked about seeing The Culture Clash, the Chicano/Latino performance group that mixes comedy, satire, and social commentary through a Latino perspective, but we never followed through. Toñito’s Internet invitation to see another type of comedy about a Chicano culture hero was more than enough to compensate. I look forward to another date.

It’s a winding road from Cuesta Way
Down Sunset to the beach.
Though Canoga Park is a straight safe drive
It’s too far out of reach.
But now the headlights are flashin’ by so fast
All directions seem the same
And the windshield wipers keep repeating
You can’t let go again.

What’s in a name on the street tonight?
I’m only a face in the crowd.
All in the dark and afraid tonight;
Nowhere to run or to hide.
But I can’t let go.
(Can't Let Go, by Bryan Ferry)

I’ve been remiss in my blogging. The homework and mid-term questions for my Hebrew Prophets class at Fuller Seminary have been taking up more time than I expected. I probably write more than I need on the reading reports and essay questions, but carefully composing and expressing my thoughts and impressions into words helps me internalize the themes better. However, I haven’t given up on my Wandering Wednesdays idea, and I started this month’s explorations in my own neighborhood of Canoga Park, concentrating on autumnal themes.

This was the first year I was not actively directing a school for Halloween. Every November for nineteen years, this task meant anticipating the seasonal “holiday”, communicating the criteria for acceptable costumes (no gangsters, cocktail waitresses, or French maids) and props, scheduling the lunchtime activities, and chaperoning the after-school dance. Since the time our own children outgrew Trick-or-Treating, and with declining children solicitors at home, Halloween was primarily a school function. So, to keep myself involved in this festive autumnal rite, I asked Kathy if I could go to her school and take photos of the activities on October 30, the Friday before Halloween. She said "sure".

I had never been at a Catholic elementary school for a Halloween parade. The students did not come to school costumed, as they would at a public school. On this Friday, the children arrived in uniform, ready to attend the school-wide liturgy in the church that morning. They changed into their disguises during, or after, recess. The parade, which was held in the Parish Hall, took the rest of the morning. School dismissed at 12 o’clock, and teachers spent the rest of the afternoon in a staff meeting. I’ve included a few pictures of the preparations, the parade, and the judging which occurred that morning.

Two days later, I attended the 9^th Annual Dia de Los Muertos Festival (which oddly enough, fell on All Saints Day, November 1) on Sherman Way, the Main Street of Canoga Park. This year, I was better prepared to attend this event, and in a much better mood (see Dia de Los Muertos). I dressed lightly for the sunny and warm weather, and carried less equipment, so I was able to move quicker and with more confidence. I noted fewer vendors and artisans this year, but I assumed that was a manifestation of the difficult economy. Regardless, the street scene still generated a large gathering and much positive energy.

Canoga Park always makes a strong cultural and artistic contribution to the positive diversity of the West San Fernando Valley. Woodland Hills, West Hills, and Chatsworth all manage to sponsor some type of up-scale, open-air, musical or culinary events during the year, but Canoga Park still hosts the old-fashioned, patriotic, and ethnically diverse activities that attract working class parents, grandparents, and children of all nationalities and age groups. Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day parades are held annually, as well as ethnic street fairs and large-scale church bazaars. These events generate a warm and friendly environment that seems to harken back to older, gentler times.

I’ve included some photos of the festival, but if you’re interested in a more comprehensive album, click on my hyperlink, 2009-11-01 All Saints Day Album to see my Flickr account. Feel free to suggest any of your favorite sites, locales, or events.

I love to go a-wandering,
Along the mountain track,
And as I go, I love to sing,
My knapsack on my back.

Val-deri, val-dera
Val-dera
Val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha
Val-deri, val-dera
My knapsack on my back
(Happy Wanderer, by Friedrick Wilhelm-Moller: 1946?)



It occurred to me as I was driving the other day that I always wished I had the time to visit places in and around Los Angeles and Southern California that I never had the chance to see. As a child, I was fortunate to have parents who never let insufficient money be an impediment to visiting and exploring the free and inexpensive attractions and locales the city offered to a family with four, then five, and then six kids. In high school and college, I was lucky to have friends and acquaintances that acted on these same impulses and invited me along. When we were dating, Kathy and I took many drives around the city, looking for new places and people to visit on Saturdays and Sundays. We did it with our two kids for a while, until their own social and athletic commitments started taking up their time. You know what I mean. Someone mentioned a location or event that you’d heard about all your life, and you’d think, “I’d love to see that someday”. I was born in LA, and lived in Southern California all my life, and yet there are hundreds of places I’ve never seen for myself – only heard or read about. It also occurred to me while I drove, that I now had the ability to experience “that someday”.

 

Strangely enough, the one place that came immediately to mind in the midst of these musings was the Watts Towers. I remember first hearing of them from Ed Seydoux, a tiny and very fragile classmate in high school. He mentioned them during a class discussion, while criticizing how few white, Westside and South Bay residents ever traveled outside of their middle class neighborhoods to explore other parts of our ethnically and racially diverse city. Having lived in and visited family members throughout East Los Angeles and Lincoln Heights, I understood and supported his argument, but I knew nothing about these towers, or where they were located. In time (through television, magazines, and conversations), I learned that the towers were “folk-architectural” structures built by Simon Rodia between 1921 and 1955, in the South Los Angeles community of Watts. Since they were built in the center of what became the most racially isolated African-American ghetto in Los Angeles, the towers never attracted large numbers of outside visitors or tourists, but I’ve never stopped being curious about them. In fact, their size and legend grew throughout the years.

So, since I now find myself in the enviable position of having the time to drive, sightsee, and visit ANY place in L.A., WHENEVER I wish; I decided to get off my butt and do it. I’m dedicating Wednesdays as my official “wandering days”- days on which I’ll post the photos and commentary of my latest sightseeing locales in Southern California. I’ve even chosen theme music; an odd German polka song I heard on T.V. in the 50’s, during the ending credits of the old travelogue, The Happy Wanderer.  I’m hoping to concentrate on sites I’ve never seen or visiting childhood locales I’d like to rediscover as an adult. My first target was The Watts Towers.

The Watts Towers are readily accessible by freeway (which is ideal in Southern California). They are just off the 105 Interstate Highway at Wilmington Avenue. I started my urban safari at the northernmost of Los Angeles, the city of Pasadena. I took the South Arroyo Parkway to the 110 Pasadena Freeway and traveled eight miles south, through downtown L.A., where it intersected with the 101 Hollywood Freeway and “morphed” into the 110 Harbor Freeway at the Four-level interchange. After driving ten minutes through the heart of South Los Angeles, I merged onto the East 105 Century Freeway for about 3 or 4 minutes, and then exited at South Wilmington Avenue, in Watts. I made a left on Wilmington Ave and went north about one mile to 108^th Street, following the signs to the Towers. I turned left on 108^th St and drove one block to Willowbrook Ave, just in front of the Metro Blue Line tracks. I made a right on Willowbrook and another quick right onto 107^th Street. At that point the three main towers were clearly visible, and the adjacent Art Center and State Historical Park. Two things struck me as I parked along the short dead end street: the area had changed very little in 23 years, and the steel and mortar spirals I spied were shorter than expected.

The last time I traveled through Watts was in 1985, when I was serving as an Instructional Advisor to 6 new teachers at Markham Junior and Jordan High Schools. I remembered driving down those cold, dull streets in the early chill of morning, studying the small groups of black men, young and old, who stood on corner sidewalks.  Those lean and gaunt men seemed to mill and arrange themselves around barren storefronts, talking and staring at the cars that passed them bye. This stark tableau, which I saw repeated on corner after corner, emanated an almost tangible odor of ennui and despair. These weren’t peddlers hawking fruit, or day laborers in front of a do-it-yourself hardware store, waiting expectantly for a contractor or homeowner to drive up offering jobs. As laughing and giggling children passed by on their way to schools, these men had no goals, nor purpose, or destinations. In the bright glare of 2009, driving along Wilmington Ave at 1 o’clock in the afternoon, I still saw those small, passive cliques on street corners.

Honestly, I suppose I wanted to see something on the scale of the Eiffel Tower. I imagined huge, massive structures that were visible for miles and miles, and dominating the South Los Angeles skyline. Frankly, I didn’t notice Simon Rodia’s towers until I drove up to them on 107^th Street. That is what time, longing, and fantasy did to my common sense. However, I’m happy to report, that once I started photographing the towers, I was reaffirmed and even optimistic. The towers were uplifting and exhilarating sights, rising like proud spirals of hope in the deep blue skies of the city.

The Watts Towers website can give you all the interesting facts, figures, and stories about these famous, angelic obelisks. I’ve included a short selection of photos above, but if you’re interested in viewing my entire album, click on my hyperlink, 2009-10-23 Watts Towers Album to see my Flickr account. In the meantime, feel free to suggests any of your favorite sights, locales, or places. I'm just starting and I need all the help I can get.

Would you know my name,
If I saw you in heaven?
Will it be the same,
If I saw you in heaven?
I must be strong, and carry on,
Cause I know I don’t belong,
Here in heaven.

Would you hold my hand,
If I saw you in heaven?
Would you help me stand,
If I saw you in heaven?
I’ll find my way, through night and day,
Cause I know I just can’t stay
Here in heaven.

Time can bring you down,
Time can bend your knee,
Time can break your heart;
Have you begging please,
Begging please.

Beyond the door
There’s peace I’m sure.
And I know there’ll be no more…
Tears in heaven.
(Tears in Heaven: Clapton & Jennings - 1992)

 
George B. Riley died on Saturday, October 3, 2009, the night of the Full Harvest Moon. He was 89 years old, and the father of eleven children - all of whom I’ve known since high school. His death occurred three months after the death of another parent of a long-time high school friend, Katherine Ryan, on July 13. These sudden deaths of a man and woman I’d known since 1966 (their spouses had died years earlier) were jarring. I had not realized how automatic my question, “So, how is your mom or dad doing?” had become, whenever I saw Jim and John (George’s sons), and Greg (one of Katherine’s sons). Nor how predictable and soothing was their constant reply, “Oh, as well as can be expected, I suppose. Getting older and more frail”. Following that preamble, they always added graphic information, listing the ever-growing list of eccentricities, stubborn behaviors, and declining motor, visual, and hearing functions their parents were experiencing or exhibiting. I’d shake my head in sympathy, and compare the conditions of my own mother, who is 85, and my father-in-law, who is 90. Despite all that dispassionate talk and commiseration, and rationally anticipating their inevitable deaths, their actual passing was still unexpected. We are never really ready for someone’s end, even when we think we are. Death is a blind spot in our consciousness.

I probably knew George Riley, better than any other friend’s parent. I worked side-by-side with him for many years when I was employed at ADT Burglar Alarm Co. Our paths would cross during the summer months when I filled in for office technicians on vacation. He would leave his full time job at the Gas Company on Flower Street at 3:30 P.M., cross the street to enter the Western Union Building, and work part of the swing shift until eight o’clock. He called ADT his “part-time job”, although from my perspective he was working a twelve-hour day (16 when he worked overtime). Before my encounter with George at ADT, he was simply Mr. Riley, the white haired, round faced, and humorless father of the Riley clan. This was a family of five boys and 6 girls, who grew up in a 3-bedroom, one bathroom house on Kellyfield Ave, in Westchester, California, and attended Visitation Elementary, and St. Bernard High School during the 1950’s and 60’s. Kellyfield is gone now. It was purchased by right of eminent domain and demolished as part of the expansion plans of the Los Angeles International Airport in 1968. LAX’s Parking Lot C now covers the vast area that once abounded with street after street of residential homes, bursting with families and children. Because he seemed to be working all the time, I would only catch brief glimpses of him at home and around the house, while I was in high school and my freshman year in college. Our paths might cross briefly on a weekend, if I were picking Jim up for a game, but our interactions consisted only of “Hello, Mr. Riley”, and “Goodbye, Mr. Riley”. That changed when Jim helped me get a job at American District Telegraph (ADT) Company during the summer of 1967, and I came to know him as a co-worker and peer on the swing shift.

 

“Hello, Mr. Riley”, I said when he entered the operations office of ADT, filled with blinking wall panel lights and clattering ticker-tape machines on long, green-surfaced worktables.
The silver-haired, mid-sized man, in a short-sleeved white shirt, paused and considered me before speaking. A leprechaun-like smile broke over his round face and he said, “Tony, call me George”.
My face froze in shock, and my throat clenched in confused panic. “I, I, I can’t call you that, Mr. Riley” I stuttered.
“Sure you can,” he said, walking up and patting me reassuringly on the shoulder. “Don’t think of my as Jimmy’s dad. I’m just George, another
serviceman working in the office”.
“Okay, Mr. Riley… I mean, George.  Whatever you say,” I sighed. I could not imagine how this would work.

Over the summer I became more and more confident working alongside of George. Just as my alarm and night-watch monitoring duties and responsibilities slowly started making sense, my relationship with him did too. He was one of 6 alarm technicians who managed silent burglar alarms all night, along with one radio dispatcher, and a supervisor. Their ages varied from 25 to 45, and many held other jobs. Jim, two or three other guys, and I were part of a personnel experiment to see if college students could fit in to supplement the summer vacation period. For a kid with only market box-boy experience at minimum wage, working with men (many of whom were WWII and Korean War veterans) in a serious endeavor, and receiving a respectable hourly rate, was a heady experience. It was strange at first, seeing the father of your best friend in an all- male, adult, work environment. Until that summer, Mr. Riley had always been a dour, serious, and grouchy dad to me. That person disappeared at ADT. Somehow, in the confines of a well lit, bustling office, between the hours of 4 to 8 P.M., he was transformed into a jovial, cherub-faced, and capable co-worker. He told jokes, played practical jokes, and shared stories. He was a different guy at work, and I came to know him as a rounder, fuller character.

I only knew Mrs. Katherine Hanley Ryan through her son, Greg. My interactions with her, or her husband, were rare in high school. They would usually consist of saying “Hi Mrs. Ryan” as I entered her home, and then being hustled out by Greg, telling me that we didn’t have time to waste talking. I remembered her as a tall, slim, short-skirted lady, with red hair and a low, husky voice. Jim and I thought she was “hot” – which always caused Greg to roll his eyes and tell us to “get serious”.  While in college, Jim and I would occasionally insist on chatting with Mrs. Ryan, anxious to inform her of what we were doing at school and in our lives, and indirectly providing information about Greg and his activities. She was a vivacious, spontaneous, and interesting woman, who reminded me of Rosalind Russell in the movie Auntie Mame. Ironically, I learned more about her during her funeral than I ever discovered in her life. It seems that while managing a household with five children and a husband (which I knew), she also worked as an executive secretary at the Ashley Famous Agency (AFA), and as the personal secretary of Hugh O'Brien (which was a surprise to us). She interacted and worked with movie and television actors, producers, and directors, and campaigned for Bobby Kennedy in the 1960’s, while working for Peter Lawford. Who knew she was so well connected?

Both George and Katherine survived their spouses by many years. As widowed parents, they saw their children, and their children’s families and friends, grow into middle-age and beginning planning for their own retirements. Their passing is a reflective moment for me.  Beginning as an 18 year-old boy, through college, marriage, a family, and a career, I saw George and Katherine lead happy and satisfying lives. I assume they had their share of struggles, disappointments, and hardships, but they never stopped being parents, and offering their lives as examples (both positive and negative) of what life has in store for their children. They did this in the last years of their lives, and in their deaths as well.

“Goodbye Mrs. Ryan, goodbye Mr. Riley – I feel I barely knew you”.

 

“So,” Kathy asked, looking up from the newspaper she was scanning. “What are you thinking of doing, now that you’ve decided not to go to Mexico?”
Actually, I’m not sure she framed the question quite so bluntly. It was probably more subtly phrased. But, there was no question that in deciding to forgo my Retirement-Sabbatical (see A Retirement-Sabbatical and Mavourneen) to Mexico for a semester, I was leaving a gaping whole in my academic plans for the year. Kathy was obviously curious of how I would fill it, and she was not prone to avoid asking.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, putting down my own section of the newspaper for a moment. “Classes at the University of Morelia offered a real challenging change of direction, and a thorough immersion into Spanish. I’m not really interested in continuing my undergraduate studies in Mexican History, or my post-graduate work in Latin American Studies. I’m looking for something new and different”.
“Well,” she brainstormed for me, “have you thought of taking some writing workshops or English or American lit classes? There must be plenty of classes at the nearby junior colleges or CSUN”.
“None of those subjects interest me,” I said, giving Kathy my complete attention. “I don’t need workshops to write anymore, and I prefer reading what I find interesting, not an English professor. But,” I admitted, “I have been thinking of a whole new area of study.”
“What is it?” Kathy asked breathlessly, searching my face for telltale clues.
“You may think this is crazy,” I began, “but I’ve been thinking of taking some theological and biblical studies classes.”
“Really?” she exclaimed, sitting back in the couch, absorbing the significance of my announcement. “Well there are plenty of programs,” she volunteered, quickly shifting gears to be a supportive advisor. “Some of the nearby parishes offer good bible study classes, and Holy Spirit Retreat House is publicizing its fall classes. There are plenty of places you could go.”
“Actually” I intervened softly, “I was thinking of programs a little more structured and rigorous. I’ve been considering registering as an auditor at a religious college or university.”
“Really?” she exclaimed again, putting the newspaper down. “You know,” she added, “I can see how that type of program might intrigue you. Mount St. Mary’s College has a strong Theology Department and, of course, the Jesuits at Loyola Marymount University have an excellent program, too.”
“I was thinking of another school,” I said hesitatingly, leaving the sentence unfinished.
“Which school?” she asked, curiously.
“Fuller Seminary in Pasadena,” I announced quietly, looking steadily at Kathy’s face for hints of approval or disappointment.
“Really,” she announced loudly, looking at me in wonder. “A nice Catholic boy like you! What made you think of Fuller?”


I discovered Fuller Theological Seminary one Saturday morning back in the 90’s, when Kathy and I walked onto its campus, while exploring Mid-central Pasadena. Kathy had won a door prize for a weekend stay at the Doubletree (now Westin) Pasadena Hotel on Los Robles Avenue, and we were taking advantage of the getaway opportunity to spend some time alone. That morning we took a walking trip of the nearby environs and visited the shops, stores, and museums along Los Robles, Colorado Boulevard, and Oakdale Avenue. It was while circling back to the hotel that we came upon Fuller. I’d heard of this evangelical Protestant seminary from time to time, but always assumed it was located somewhere near the monumental Lake Avenue Church complex that towered over the 210 Freeway. The subdued and serene grounds of Fuller caught me by surprise. An ivy-covered entrance to a Prayer Garden sat in cool juxtaposition across from a tall, gleaming, modernistic graduate library of steel and glass. In bemused amazement, we walked along the shaded walkways, through well-tended lawns, inspecting the Victorian-style homes that had been converted into offices and dormitories, and the traditional stucco buildings containing classrooms and auditoriums. Slender palms and wide shade trees cast a leafy tarp over the open area between the cement structures and wooden houses. The grounds reminded me of the downtown campus of Mount St. Mary’s College on Chester Place. Anchored by the Doheny Mansion, an ornate, Victorian, historical landmark, the Roman Catholic estate was my first exposure to a academic setting that typified the Greek ideal of “collegiums”; garden-like places where philosophers and scholars gathered to sit, read, mediate, discuss, and learn. Now, at Fuller, I’d found another such setting, only it was Protestant. When we came to the visible boundary of the campus on Walnut Street and Oakland Avenue, we spied the Fuller Bookstore. Unable to resist, Kathy and I walked inside to inspect the store and its offerings.

What would you think if I sang out of tune?
Would you stand up and walk out on me?
Lend me your ears and I’ll sing you a song,
And I’ll try not to sing out of key.
Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.
Mmm, I get high with a little help from my friends.
Mmm, I’m gonna try with a little help from my friends.

Do you need anybody?
I need somebody to love.
Could it be anybody?
I want somebody to love.
(A Little Help from My Friends: Lennon & McCarthy, 1967)

There is something remarkably orderly and business-like in the way Catholic elementary school children line up each morning in the playground. Perhaps public school kids do the same, but I don’t know for sure. You see my many teaching experiences have only been in middle and senior high public schools where students range freely through the schools each morning, like grazing cattle, until a ringing bell prompts them into a stampede to their classrooms. So, I was stunned by the quiet and calm I saw when I first walked out the door of the Faculty Room of OLV School. There were boys and girls of every size, shape and color, forming up in neat, straight lines, awaiting the arrival of their teachers and the bell. Contrasting the uniformity of navy blue pants, shorts, and plaid skirts, the bright hues of their polo shirts gave them a crisp and colorful look. It was a sparkling sea of tranquil blues and grey, mixed with bright splashes of poppy gold and luminous white shirts. In the background, cars were slowly snaking through a cordoned area at the west end of the parking lot/playground, directed by two young, teacher assistants. At a designated spot, doors flew open and pint-sized passengers quickly disembarked, and the car proceeded out through another gate. The children slowly joined their particular grade-level line and waited. Some children talked, some ate a hasty breakfast snack, and some simply gazed off into space. The only discordant note in the harmonic morning scene was the occasional jostling I spotted in the lines. A few children seem determined to be FIRST in line, even if they arrived later than the current occupant. Their actions were not belligerent or hostile, but a careful observer could easily see how the usurper was covertly moving, sliding from side to side, and changing position to maneuver himself/herself into the foremost spot. I had forgotten how important it was for young children TO BE FIRST at things; and how obvious they can be in attempting to gain that position.

“I think your fifth grade class is over there,” Ellen, the 1^st grade teacher said, pointing at two short lines in the middle of the formation. “Let’s check to make sure”.
We walked the short distance to two lines of four girls and five boys. “Good morning children, is this the 5^th grade line?”
“Yeeesss” three girls said in unison.
“Excellent, this is Mr. Delgado, he will be your substitute teacher for today”.
“Good morning, Mr. Delgado,” two of the girls managed to say together, as the boys from the parallel line looked over with great interest.
“Good morning students,” I said, smiling. “How do you get to class? Does your teacher come to get you or do you walk in yourselves?”
“Our teacher comes out to meet us each morning” the first girl in line said. “Then we walk to the entrance door of the classroom. We line up there until she greets us and then we walk in”.
“The first bell rings at 8 o’clock,” Ellen added. “We give them a five minute grace period for tardiness, then teachers escort their classes to their rooms”.
“Great” I said. “I’ll go ahead and open up the room. I want to look at the material and textbooks I’ll be using today. Thanks for your help Ellen”.
“Your welcome, Tony. Good luck today and thanks for the bagels. That was very kind”.
“Your welcome,” I replied.  “Your teachers do a great job. In my former school I noticed how subs sometimes brought doughnuts or pastry for the faculty. The regular teachers appreciated it, although I think the subs were actually lobbying for more clients”.
“Well who knows” Ellen said, tongue-in-cheek, “if you do a good job for us today, we may call you back for more assignments”.
“Great” I said, laughingly, as I walked towards the 5^th grade classroom, “we’ll fill my days with subbing assignments. Just what a retired principal wants to do”.

In an unexplained impulse last month, I suddenly told Kathy I wanted to help her at school if she ever needed emergency assistance. The announcement surprised her as much as it shocked me. I explained that I wasn’t looking for REAL work, nor did I want to substitute teach or volunteer my time on a regular basis. But I came to the realization that as a retired teacher and principal, I was in a position to help if she was in a sudden and unexpected jam. It was a generous idea and I was very proud of myself for having THOUGHT it. I promptly forgot about it until last week, when Kathy brought me back to reality by actually asking me to substitute for Jennifer, her fifth grade teacher. They were both attending a morning testing meeting on Tuesday, and she could not find a substitute teacher to cover Jennifer’s class. I paused just long enough to realize that I couldn’t equivocate on my offer, and quickly replied, “Sure, I’d be happy to sub for you.” Now I was committed to an action that was incredibly intimidating. I’d knowingly put myself in a position as a replacement teacher. I hadn’t subbed in years, and never liked doing it.

Teaching is hard, but subbing is harder; the former takes determination and skill, the latter requires audacity and improvisation. My only successful teaching experiences were as a full time, regular instructor in junior and senior high schools. I hated to substitute for other teachers. Lesson plans were rarely detailed and comprehensive, I could never find necessary equipment and materials in another teacher’s classroom, and students interpreted the absence of their teacher as an excuse for uncooperative and defiant behavior. I completely stopped subbing as an administrator. On the rare occasions when I discovered a teacher-less class as a principal, I would “sit with” the students for a brief time until an official substitute teacher was called or found. But I never actually followed an emergency lesson plan, and I never taught students below the 6^th grade level. So why had I volunteered to sub, when I didn’t like subbing? What had prompted my chivalrous intention in the first place? It wasn’t clear even to me until I inadvertently explained it to James, John, and Ed, three brothers who were long time family friends.

On the Saturday before I subbed for Kathy and Jennifer, the four of us met for drinks before seeing Spamalot, the musical adaptation of the movie, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, at the Ahmanson Theatre. While chatting at a bar and grill before the performance, John asked how I was adapting to retirement. I told him that I was slowly becoming comfortable with the “free time” I now had; time to indulge in activities that were only possible in my youth.  As a high school and college student, my life consisted of six general activities: learning, reading, writing, household chores, athletics, and HELPING. I recalled that helping was seen as a NOBLE ACTION of family love, friendship, and generosity; and since money was always lacking, time and labor were the only resources we had available to offer one another. I remembered helping friends study, work, and learn new skills. In those days I especially enjoyed helping girls. It was the chivalrous thing to do, and could lead to other, more amorous rewards. This innocent, helpful attitude slowly changed with time, age, and marriage. My willingness to help others shrunk in reverse proportion to my age, number of dependents, and income. About the only people I considered helping were family members with great needs, or people for whom I felt a great obligation. But even with family, I passed up many opportunities to help, claiming more personal obligations. Retirement now reminded me of that semi-autonomous state of irresponsibility I experienced in high school and college. As a youth, all I had to do was go to school and complete my chores. I was always free to HELP, and I felt a great sense of satisfaction and happiness in doing so. I sought that feeling again. So, I explained to the brothers, about two months ago I privately decided to be available to HELP PEOPLE, preferably people I KNEW. The idea of helping strangers filled me with dread because I feared becoming responsible FOR THEM. I thought helping friends was easier- especially if one concentrated on the helping, and not the work. Kathy was the first person I told of this intention, and she was the first person to ask. So, I announced, I was subbing for her 5^th grade teacher. I’m not sure if my explanation made sense to the brothers, but it helped me understand my own actions. I saw subbing as an adventure and an opportunity to help. I had the teaching experience, and the subject matter knowledge; I simply needed to call forth the required audacity and be ready to improvise.

I suspected that I was not simply being thrown into an emergency-subbing situation when Kathy asked me if I’d like to see the classroom and meet Jennifer and her students the day before my assignment. I was relieved at the offer and pleased with the results. Seeing the physical layout and organization of Jennifer’s classroom assured me that I was walking into a structured and well-managed situation. Each desk was spaced and clearly labeled with the names of each student. Classroom rules, question and comment hand-signs, student chores, daily lesson agenda, student activities, and homework assignments were all printed or posted around the room. It was a physical environment that radiated feelings of safety, structure, and active learning. The 5^th grade students were clearly amazed when their principal introduced me as her husband (and also a principal) and the substitute teacher for the following day. I could almost hear a collective gulp as that bit of information settled into their consciousness (“Our principal’s husband is our substitute teacher!”). As Kathy interacted with the students, Jennifer gave me a quick orientation of her room, pointing out the learning hints and strategies posted on walls, and indicating the duty roster of student chores and responsibilities. She assured me that her students were familiar with the learning activities and procedures required for the lessons she planned. She also promised to email me her lesson plans that afternoon so I could review the activities and instruction. She was very young, sweet, and thoughtful in her sureness; and I realized that she too might be gulping at the prospect of having her principal’s husband subbing for her (“What will he think of my kids, my lessons, and ME?”).

Actually I knew Jennifer, and had known her for a long time. She was one of two PLACE (Partners in Los Angeles Catholic Education) Corp teachers whom my wife recruited from the Loyola Marymount University Catholic teaching and graduate program. Our daughter Prisa was accepted into the Jesuit funded service program the year after its inception. As educators, Kathy and I were impressed with the aims and the quality of training provided in this program, which matched well-educated and highly motivated Catholic college graduates with archdiocesan elementary and high schools who served ethnically diverse and predominately low-income students. Prisa thrived in the Catholic communal environment that supported the two-year apprenticeship, and she graduated with a master’s degree, teaching credential, and full-time teaching experience. At the end of Prisa’s first year, Kathy suggested the program to two former students of OLV who were just graduating from college and interested in teaching. Kathy had taught Jennifer and Esthela when they were 8^th grade students, and they stayed in touch throughout their high school and college years. The PLACE Corp seemed the perfect vehicle to test their resolve. After a few years, Kathy offered them both teaching positions at their former school (Esthela in 2^nd grade and Jennifer in 5^th). They accepted and thrived in the strong community orientated school and parish that is OLV.

The morning of my assignment was over in a flash, and my 4-hour stint as a sub was finished before I had a chance to feel overwhelmed and regret my actions. My timing was perfect all day: buying the fresh bagels and cream cheese at Western Bagel, gaining entrance into the faculty lounge, and setting up the food before anyone arrived (over time I’ve learned that with a predominately female faculty, set-up and presentation of food is essential). I had just enough time to identify my line-up area, unlock the classroom doors, and review the manuals and textbooks before instructional time began. Honestly, I was only one activity ahead of the students all day, but because of the comprehensive quality of the lesson plans, and the self-management of the students, that was enough. The children were the real story. The most interesting part of the experience occurred at about 10:20 A.M., during the Reading Period. The lesson called for students to read a story aloud, utilizing the “popcorn reading” method and employing “Reading strategies to check comprehension”. This was the last interactive activity of the day, and I suspected I was finally beginning to relax, and so were the kids. Since the morning, they had acted very formally and mechanically with me. They were careful to listen, answered my questions, and followed my direction. However, during the reading assignment, I noticed that the type of questions the children were asking began to change. Up until that moment, they only raised their hands to ask permission or to respond to my questions: “Can I go to the bathroom? Can I get a drink of water? Can I get a pencil from my backpack?” They did not begin to ask speculative questions, or personal questions until we began reading.

The assignment was to read Wilma Unlimited, a story of Wilma Rudolph, the African-American runner who won 3 gold track and field medals in the 1960 Olympic games. Usually this type of lesson is a snap for a sub, because it simply entails letting the students read aloud. But the challenge of a reading exercise is to encourage students to practice a variety of thinking and comprehension skills, while maintaining interest in the story. Recess had given me just enough time to review the Teacher Manual and learn which skills were to be emphasized in the story. I studied the vocabulary list and the target concept - cause and effect. This is a simple term for an adult to recognize, but hard to explain to 10 year old children. Before I could develop a clear strategy, recess ended and it was time to pick up the kids who were lining up in the playground and escort them to class. Popcorn reading is a funny term, because the method has nothing to do with food. It is a “read-aloud” process in which students read a paragraph and then announce “popcorn”, before calling out the name of the next student reader. While it seems a disjointed method to listen to a narrative, it can develop a progressive reading rhythm while allowing natural breaks to think, ask questions, and speculate. I was awkward at first, because I hadn’t read the story ahead of time and wasn’t sure how to best illustrate cause and effect, and check for comprehension at the same time. As students began reading, I tried following along while glancing at the Teacher Manual for prompts and suggestions. One can’t read one thing and listen to another at the same time. I tried, but finally gave up. The primary rule of Improvisation (remember subbing was Audacity and Improvisation?) is: LISTEN, LISTEN, and LISTEN. One can’t interact with another person if they don’t listen to what they are saying.

Moving cause and effect to the back of my mind, I finally listened to the flow of the narrative and began highlighting obvious points of interest and speculation. That is when the tenor of student questions changed.
“So,” I interrupted, as soon as Marcella had called on Brandon to read. “We’ve mentioned that Wilma was tiny and weak at birth, and was always sick as a child. What would these facts cause people to think about Wilma, and what she might become?”
“Yes,” I said, pointing at the short, black haired boy who had suddenly raised his hand.
“Why can’t we remember what we did when we were one or two years old?” Kyle asked, sincerely.
“What?” I asked, unsurely. “Can you repeat the question?”
“Why can’t we remember what we did when we were one or two years old?” Kyle repeated. “I wish I could remember”.
“I’m not sure,” I answered, smiling at the seeming randomness of the question. “I think it’s because a child’s brain is still forming, and brain connections are only beginning to recognize sights, sounds, and ideas. Babies can’t remember what they don’t understand. I wish we could remember what it was like to be one or two years old too, but we have to depend on the memory of our parents and other adults. So, who can tell me what Wilma’s parents might have thought about how she would grow up?”

The students grew more eager to read and participate, and their reading level was surprising high. The story and interactions moved so fast, I didn’t have time to celebrate having answered this apparently nonsensical question (The connection hit me later that day). However, it wasn’t long before I was blind-sided by another unexpected question, after we read how Wilma and her mother had to sit in the back of the bus whenever they traveled to the hospital for treatment of her polio.
“Now this is very important,” I said, when Raven finished reading. “We live in a time when people in America can sit anywhere they wish in a bus, an airplane, or in a public vehicle. In fact, most children prefer sitting in the back of the bus, where they can see everyone and everything. But there was a time in our history when public facilities were divided. People could only use separate restrooms, restaurants, pools, or drinking fountains. Can someone tell us what was the basis of this separation?”
Marcella’s arm shot up so quickly I knew she had the full answer. “Yes, Marcella,” I said.
“What subject did you teach?” she asked.
“I taught history in school,” I said, puzzled by her association of segregation with me.
“Ohh” she exhaled, “that explains why you get so excited talking about this story”.
“Yes” I laughed in answer. “I supposed I do love reading and talking about people in American history. As you’ll see, Wilma Rudolph was really an interesting person who overcame incredible difficulties and hardships to achieve success.”
At that point of the lesson, I would have loved continuing to read, question and explore the accomplishments of Wilma Rudolph in America of the 50’s and 60’s, but it was almost 11 o’clock and time for a Social Studies quiz.

The morning ended for me at 11:30 when I released the students to their physical education class with Mandy, the P.E. instructor. I felt a great sense of relief at having finished this first test of my helping resolution. I was glad it was over, not because the experience was unpleasant – it wasn’t. In fact, it was incredibly satisfying. The kids (especially the 5^th graders) were alert, polite, eager, and engaging (They were also cute). I just needed to finally DO IT – finally sub and realize that I CAN do it, and enjoy it. A half-day assignment was the perfect initiation. The experience was short and sweet. It allowed me to see, hear, and participate in school activities, without the weariness and fatigue of a 6-hour day. I wouldn’t mind doing in again – as long as I knew I was helping someone out.

“What do they call it when
Everything intersects?”
“The Bermuda Triangle”.
(Sleepless in Seattle: 1993)


“Hi Tony” the laidback, easily recognizable voice on the answering machine announced. “This is your Uncle Charlie, call me. We need to talk. I want to know if you can join me on a trip to Seattle. It will be fun, call me”.
I had not spoken to Charlie since my retirement party in May, so I was both curious and suspicious of the message. Suspicious because I had already turned down my cousin Raul’s (Tootis [Too-tees] is his family nickname) invitation to visit him and his wife Jan in Seattle, but curious since I couldn’t imagine how Charlie was involved. Since meeting them at Charlie and Espee’s family party in May (see Celebrate & Rejoice),Tootis had suggested that I stay at his home on Lake Tapps as his guest. Through email and telephone, he glowingly described his accommodations, the lake on which he lived, and the fabulous amenities nearby: the view of Mt. Rainer, the boating, the golf course, and the proximity to the beautiful city of Seattle. But, while the offer was intriguing, it wasn’t practical. This had been a very busy and over-scheduled period of time for Kathy and me. We had packed the summer with one retirement luncheon, a two-week vacation at the beach, and three weddings, and now Kathy was preparing for the opening of school. There simply wasn’t room for anything else - but I never gave Tootis a straight answer. I simply ignored his entreaties and in an email replied: “Take care, and I’ll see you soon”. Well, he immediately responded back, asking how literally should he take “soon,” and again describing the great food, wine, cigars, glorious vistas, and excellent music that awaited me. This time he even offered to book my flight. His persistence finally annoyed me and I fired off a brusque email telling him that “see you soon” was a metaphor, and proceeded to itemize the reasons why a trip to Seattle was impractical and undesirable. Since he was “family” I trusted that my pointed honesty was better than further silence on the subject. Even if my decision upset him, I was still his cousin Toñito. He was stuck with me as member of his family, whether he liked me or not. I put the invitation out of my mind, never expecting it to resurface again. Surprisingly it did, but in a different form.


“Hi Chuck” I said when he answered the phone. “What’s this about? Don’t tell me that Tootis conned you into talking me into going to Seattle.”
“Well no, not exactly”, he replied sheepishly. “Tootis called me and invited me to Seattle. He also mentioned that he asked you first, but that you turned him down. I wasn’t even offended that I was his second choice. I knew I would enjoy the trip and his hospitality. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it would be a lot more fun if you came along too. It was my idea to call you. We always have great times together. What do you think? Seattle is a fabulous place and Tootis promises to cover meals, drinks, entertainment, and transportation. How can you turn down such a deal? Come on, all you have to do is fork over the cost of a plane ticket, because everything else is free. Come on, Tony, I know you have the time – you’re retired! These are the things you’re supposed to do”.
“Hmmm” I replied loudly, seriously evaluating this proposal. Charlie was my oldest playmate and friend, and I trusted him. He was more of a big brother than an uncle, and he had been my first peer teacher (see Nacimiento Stories , Dia de los Muertos, and Cosmic Quest ) through childhood and adolescence. He was a great storyteller and raconteur and I had only spoken with him for short periods during formal events and parties. It had been years since we just hung out together, talking, asking questions, and laughing. “When are you leaving?” I asked, hesitantly.
“Sunday” he replied, sensing a weakness in my resistance. “I’m planning to stay from Sunday to Wednesday”.
“Sunday!” I shouted into the phone. “That’s in one day! I can’t drop everything and join you with only one day’s notice. I have things to do, Charlie, I have commitments to fulfill. I don’t make spontaneous decisions like this”.
“Spontaneous decisions are what retirements are all about” he concluded. “What’s the point of not working if you can’t act on a whim? When is the earliest flight you could take?”
“I couldn’t leave before Monday,” I admitted, acknowledging the feasibility of this trip for the first time. “But I have to check with Kathy. We may have commitments that I forgot about. I can’t say yes until then”.
“Great” he said, “call me back with your answer. Just remember that it will be fun”.
“Alright” I concluded. “I’ll call you back”. As I hung up, I already knew that I wanted to go. Speaking with Kathy would insure there wasn’t a scheduling conflict, but I intended asking her to help me book a flight.


The three day trip was a whirlwind of hiking and aquatic activities, fine dining, sightseeing, and talk, talk, talk. It is amazing how much cousins and uncles have to say when they haven’t spoken in many, many years. Tootis and Jan lived on Lake Tapps, a man-made lake in Pierce County, in the shadow of Mt. Rainier, about 40 miles southwest of Seattle. With their three grown children living away from home, they had a three-level, lakefront house to themselves. Charlie and I bunked downstairs, and each morning we were greeted by the gentle lapping swells against the dock, and glistening lights reflecting off the water. The lake, forests, and walking paths provided a wonderfully rustic setting, which was accentuated when Tootis took us picking blackberries for a homemade pie Jan promised to cook. Prior to this mission, the only natural foods Charlie and I ever picked from trees or vines were peaches, apricots, figs, and walnuts (yes, walnuts grow on trees). They made it sound so simple, I failed to notice that besides a pail, Tootis brought a hook pole, ladder, and branch cutters. He should have brought gloves, because he failed to mention the scythe-like thorns that lurked on the branches. Blackberries do not swoon into buckets with a slight tug. They are defiantly stubborn flowers that put up a fight. After 45 minutes of bloody wrestling we abandoned the adventure and walked home with a quarter-filled container. Tootis then took us boating on Lake Tapps, with Mt. Rainier looming in the southeastern horizon. While negotiating swells, inlets, and islands, he brought us up to date with his college, Coast Guard, and professional history in the Pacific Northwest, after leaving home to attend Humboldt State College in 1976. We docked before sunset and feasted on steak, pasta, salad, and blackberry pie, complimented by fine California wines. The talk was of family, family, and more family. It was amazing how many questions, opinions, and information we shared about our mutual relatives and our grandparents (Charlie’s parents) in Lincoln Heights. We concluded the night by listening to George Lopez’s comedy CD about growing up Chicano in East Los Angeles. After saying good night to our hosts, Charlie and I went downstairs to bed and continued talking into the early morning.

Spring is here,
The sky is blue,
Birds all sing
As if they knew
Today’s the day we’ll say, “I do”
And we’ll never be lonely anymore.

Because we’re,
Goin’ to the chapel
And we’re gonna get married.
Goin’ to the chapel
And we’re gonna get married.
Gee, I really love you
And we’re gonna get married.
Goin’ to the chapel of love.

Bells will ring,
The sun will shine,
Oh, I’ll be his
And he’ll be mine
We’ll love until the end of time
And we’ll never be lonely anymore.
*****Chorus repeats****
(Chapel of Love: Dixie Cups, 1964)

2009 is turning out to be the Summer of Nuptial Love. I will have attended three marriages before the beginning of Fall, each one involving a different type of involvement and interest. Obviously, Prisa and Joe’s wedding in July was the most momentous for Kathy and me (see Nothing to Do With Me). Katie, Prisa’s Maid of Honor and Best Friend, and Chris’s marriage was the easiest because all Kathy and I had to do was show up and enjoy it. My niece Brenna and James’ bridal event last week was the most distant and most curious. I suppose the location of their ceremony qualified it as a destination wedding.

The meaning of a “destination wedding” is easily understood; most people could explain it quickly. So I was surprised to find that neither the Merriam-Webster or Oxford dictionaries listed it. I found definitions of WEDDING, but no mention of destination wedding as a distinct entry. Perhaps “traditional” dictionaries consider destination weddings as social trends or popular cultural events instead of a primary noun. I did, however, discover two alternative online sources. Encarta called it a “plural noun”, defined as “a wedding in a distant place: a wedding for which the couple travel to a far-off location to have their marriage ceremony”. Wikipedia was more elaborate: “a destination wedding is any wedding in which the engaged couple, alone or with guests, travels to attend the ceremony. This could be a beach ceremony in the Caribbean or on the California coast, a lavish event in Las Vegas, or a simple ceremony at the home of a geographically distant friend or relative”. You can always count on Wikipedia to define the obvious, especially when it comes to practices of popular culture. But at least Wikipedia amplified the term. Destination weddings have existed for as long couples have married in places far away from the invited family and guests (My father called them “expensive and inconvenient” before the term “destination” came into vogue).

Before I married into Kathy’s family of 8 girls and two boys, I never traveled long distances to a wedding simply because I was invited. In my family, if we weren’t conveniently living in the same vicinity, we didn’t attend. Since my mother’s family all lived in Mexico City (or its outskirts), there were few expectations and no hard feelings about our lack of attendance. The only exception was when my sister Stela traveled to our cousin Rosita’s wedding, because she was a bridesmaid in 1969. When I attended the nuptial masses and receptions of my Mexican cousins Carlos and Nena in 1970 and 1973, I was living with my aunt for the summer in Mexico City. Kathy’s family offered a whole new perspective on destination marriages (and other family occasions) and the filial imperative to be present and supportive. Whenever there was a wedding, you could always count on a sizeable contingent of aunts, uncles, and cousins to arrive. There is an almost tangible drive to never let a sibling or relative down by allowing them to feel alone, isolated, and unsupported in an emotionally anxious or stressful time – sad or joyous. Because it is such an immense family, with 8 original aunts, 2 uncles, and 38 cousins, a visual impact is pretty easy to produce. Of the five family weddings of Kathy’s nephews and nieces outside of Los Angeles, I have attended three, Toñito two, and Kathy and Prisa all five. Jeff, Debbie’s son, married Lynn in Chicago, Margi, Katy and Kevin, Mary Ellen’s children, married Will, Dave, and Anastasia in San Juan Capistrano and twice in Washington D.C. (see Weddings and Funerals for Kevin’s),  and, finally, Brenna, Beth’s daughter, married James in Loomis, a town outside of Sacramento, California. When my sister Gracie’s son Timothy married Hilary in a town outside of Portland, I was already sufficiently influenced by Kathy’s modeling to put aside my initial concerns of work and expense and traveled there with Prisa in 2002. I found that destination weddings, especially in Kathy’s large and varied family are great opportunities to get together and confidently experience a new and unusual place. Besides feeling satisfied that the family member we came to support felt loved and protected, I always had a great time in a new locale. I met new people and learned something about myself. This last trip was no exception.

A total of 23 relatives were present at Brenna’s ceremony. They came by air and land. Of Beth’s 6 surviving sisters, all five of the LA contingent (Kathy, Patti, Meg, Tootie, and Tere) were in attendance, except for Mary Ellen in Washington D.C. Work and travel obligations prevented her brothers Mike and Greg from coming, but four brother-in-laws (me, Dick, John, and Mike) acted as their proxies. Eight cousins made the trip (Toñito, Prisa, Danny, Brigid, Marisa, Maria, Maggie and Anora), along with a newly wed husband (Joe) and fiancé (Jonaya). If you count Beth and her 3 children (Garrett, Caitrin, and Brenna) there were enough people to constitute a traveling revival meeting (see A Moveable Feast).

The flight into Sacramento Airport with Kathy, Meg, Tootie, and Maria, gave me the opportunity to listen to the latest family updates and prepare myself for the events to come. Once I decided to attend this celebration for Beth and Brenna, I didn’t give the wedding much thought. I knew Brenna converted to The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) and that she and James would be married in a Mormon ceremony. This accounted for my original misconception that we would be traveling to the Temple in Salt Lake City for the ceremony. Kathy and her sisters clarified that Beth and James were being married in a religious ceremony in the closest Mormon Temple, which was in Oakland. Only official members of the church were permitted to attend. They further explained that we would be joining the bride, groom, and the wedding party for a “ring ceremony” and reception at a banquet venue in Loomis, a town north of Sacramento. I interpreted all this information to mean that we were attending a slight variation of the traditional religious and civil ceremonies that constituted a marriage. Brenna and James would have a private religious ceremony followed by a public civil ceremony and festive reception. It didn’t seem unusual. I spent the rest of the trip reading, adjusting to our hotel accommodations, and psyching myself to assume the role of freelance photographer. I’d be the “official family” photographer, trying to catch candid and traditional moments from dressing up to dancing.

The benefit of carrying a conspicuous camera (a Canon Rebel T1i, my retirement gift) in your hands and around your neck is the access it gives and the perspective it provides. I was able to get an early view of the bride, her mother, and her maids as they dressed, interacted, and prepared. As I noticed at Prisa’s wedding, the Maid of Honor (Caitrin) and the bridesmaids (Marisa, Vanessa, Christine, and Rachel) were there to deflect the stresses and anxieties that the mother and bride felt when preparing for a major, once-in-a-lifetime event, and to keep the atmosphere jovial and festive. They did a great job. They were young, photogenic, and funny. I took tons of pictures and felt sufficiently confident in posing them in traditional shots (buttoning wedding dress, putting on makeup, shoes and garter, and the bride surrounded by her bevy of attendants holding bouquets). I added some spontaneous shots in the hallway, elevator, doorways, and in cars as the party left for the ceremonial site.

The venue was beautiful. The ring ceremony and reception took place in a redesigned nursery that included a shady, verdant orchard and a catering facility. There was an open-air, terraced, patio providing a lush, floral stage for the bride and groom and their party, with plenty of standing and sitting room for the guests. Along side of this patio was a completely glassed in banquet hall that gave the appearance of a landscaped, interior rain forest. The sequence of events began in the traditional manner with the wedding party processing in and taking a position apart from the bride and groom. Brenna and James then walked past them, taking an elevated and isolated spot with a presiding bishop of the Church. The bishop welcomed the family and guests of the nuptial pair, and then shared their written responses to questions he had given them about each other and how they met (a variation on the Newlywed Game). At the end of this reflective exercise, their mothers, Beth and Michelle, joined them in lighting the “Unity Candle”, symbolizing the union of two families into a new one. Then the bishop watched as the couple exchanged rings. With that transaction completed, he introduced Brenna and James, as husband and wife, and the wedding party processed out. That was the transition signal for the family and guest to move to the glassed-in hall and begin the reception, while the wedding party escaped to take pictures. Except for the absence of alcoholic beverages, out of respect for the religious practices of the bride and groom, the reception was typical. A string quartet played in the background, hors d’oeuvre were circulated, and guests mingled, met, and talked. Eventually the wedding party returned, toasts were made, the wedding cake was cut, and a D.J. took over the music and dancing duties for the rest of the evening. Later, Kathy and I, accompanied by Meg, Tootie, Patti and Dick, retired to Islands Restaurant for drinks and post-wedding analysis.

We concluded that it was a fine wedding and the couple was off with a treasured memory. The venue was beautiful, the food delicious, and everyone looked fabulous. It was only in recapping the ring ceremony itself that we realized that vows were never publically expressed or exchanged, and the bishop never blessed the union. We never heard “I, Brenna, take you James…. in sickness and in health… until death us do part.” Meg suggested that vows were probably stated in the Temple when the marriage was “sealed”, but she didn’t know how that was done. Rather that speculating further, Dick quickly researched “Mormon Weddings” on his iPhone and gave us a summary of a Wikipedia definition:

“A Mormon wedding is called a ‘Celestial Marriage’, and it is considered an eternal affair. The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (LDS) recognizes only two kinds of marriages: a civil marriage and a celestial marriage. Civil marriages are legally contracted unions under local law and are dissolved upon the death of the participants (‘until death us do part’). However, celestial marriages, also known as ‘sealings’, bind the participants as husband and wife for all eternity, if both are righteous. Only an official Mormon priest or bishop within a Sealing Room, in a dedicated temple, can perform celestial marriages. Only members of the LDS church who have a temple recommendation may attend an LDS wedding. The wedding is referred to as a sealing because the husband and wife are sealed beyond death into the next life. Many Mormon couples also hold a wedding reception or Open House after the sealing ceremony in another venue that is open to all family and friends. Some couples choose to recreate a more traditional wedding ceremony, or will simply perform certain traditional acts, such as the throwing of the bouquet, first dance, etc.”

This information explained the brevity of the ring ceremony, and the absence of public vows and blessings. We assumed those parts of the wedding were performed in the religious ceremony during the sealing. Instead of heading directly back to our hotel rooms, Meg suggested visiting Beth, the Mother of the Bride, to see how she was doing. There we toasted and congratulated her on her daughter’s wedding and reception.  Smiling wanly, she was relieved that it was over. I have found that weddings at their best are complicated and emotional productions. When travel, long distance communication, and new religious practices are factored in, they can become stressful. Beth and Brenna had performed admirably, and we were glad to have shared and recorded the experience.

Although marriages occur throughout the year, summer is the most popular of the four wedding seasons. Summer is the time for love. Summer vacations were the halcyon days of freedom from school and jobs, and a time to enjoy life and each other. It was the season that offered the best opportunities for romance, childhood crushes, teenage infatuations, and adult wooing. Kathy and I married in the summer of 1975. Summer officially ends with the Autumnal Equinox on September 22 (my birthday!). With that new positioning of the earth in relationship to the sun, this Summer of Nuptial Love comes to an end. I will never forget this particular season, and its three weddings, because it was highlighted by the marriage of my daughter Prisa. All three had their distinct style and flair, and all served the purpose of etching an indelible memory of a young couple beginning a journey through life. I’m sure there will be other busy nuptial seasons in the years ahead (especially in a family with 38 cousins), but 2009 will always be special to me.

“Eternal rest
Grant unto them,
Oh Lord,
And let perpetual light
Shine upon them.
May they rest in peace.
Amen”.
(Catholic prayer for the Dead)

 “Hi mom” I said into the cell phone I was awkwardly holding in my left hand while balancing a brimming glass in my right.  “It’s me”.
“¿Ay Toñito, how are you? Thank you for calling! ¿Donde estas? Are you on vacation yet?”
“Yeah”, I replied, sitting on a wooden lounge chair in the outside patio with tropical island landscaping. “Kathy and I are in Ventura for a couple of weeks. We’re staying at the beach house we’ve rented the last five years”.
“¡Ay, que bueno! You deserve a vacation after the wedding, especially Kathy. Oh, Tony, gracias por los fotos! We got the album in the mail yesterday. Stela and I were just looking at the pictures again when you called. Que lindos, they’re beautiful. Prisa and Kathy look so lovely!”
“Oh” I said, leaning back in the chair, putting my feet up, and placing my drink on the flat arm rest, “so you got them; great. Kathy was hoping you’d get them this weekend. She thought you’d enjoy the pictures more if you saw the physical prints, rather than looking at a computer screen. She ordered the album a few days ago”.
“Tony, Kathy es una maravilla; she is so thoughtful. I can’t say enough about her; and the wedding was perfect. I want you to be sure and tell her I said this; quiero que le digas”.
“Sure mom,” I promised, as I leaned back and stifled a yawn. “I’ll tell Kathy that you loved the wedding”.
“No es todo”, she protested, “that’s not all! Be sure to thank her for the note, it was muy amable y muy tierna. Tell her I would never have missed such an important event as this wedding. I feel a special love and affection for Prisa. She looked so happy and beautiful; it was as if the playful youngster I knew suddenly disappeared, and a beautiful woman took her place. Tell her that the wedding was perfect: the ceremony, the music… The liturgy was outstanding, especially the addition of ‘Las Posadas’. That little touch brought back such wonderful memories of past Christmases. Estoy segura que Mary estaba watching the wedding con mucho orgullo. I always had the deepest respect for Kathy’s mother. The last time we spoke, Mary only talked about how grateful she was for Kathy’s kindness and generosity. Dile a Kathy that I’m very proud and appreciative that she is your wife. I truly love and admire her.”

I was making my weekly Sunday duty-call to my 84-year-old mother, Maria del Rosario. This was the second time I’d spoken to her since Prisa’s marriage, and that event was still the main thing on her mind. On the first occasion, she had gone on and on about the wedding, praising every aspect and detail of the ceremony and reception – from the flowers, to the music, to the personally labeled water bottles at the end. She especially complimented the dresses and appearance of Prisa and Kathy, saying she had never seen Prisa more radiant and so beautiful. By then my mom had received the first batch of on-line photos, but my computer-shy mother was waiting for her daughter, Gracie, to access and review them together. Since that telephone call, we had received additional candid wedding photos from Kathy’s sister, Tere, and merged them into a more comprehensive on-line album. But, Kathy felt my mom would enjoy the photos more if she could hold them, study them, and could comfortably discuss the feelings and thoughts she experienced on that day. So she ordered a small photo album of selected pictures and sent it through the mail, hoping my mom would receive them that weekend. She included a note thanking my mom for coming and staying through the end of the reception. Obviously, the photos had revitalized my mom’s memories, because she was once again repeating many of the things she had mentioned before. However, this time she veered off onto a new subject. At the end of her long soliloquy, when I was getting ready to say goodbye, she suddenly confessed experiencing a vivid flashback of Kathy’s deceased mother Mary Cavanaugh, who died in 2006 (see I Shall be Released). During the ceremony, my mother recalled a party we hosted in 2004 celebrating Prisa’s Master’s Degree and full teaching credential from LMU. On that festive occasion she and Mary sat and talked for a long time. Mary shared many of her private feelings about Prisa and Kathy in that forgotten conversation, and my mother made me promise to convey those sentiments to my wife and daughter.

 

This sudden twist in the conversation jolted me out of my lackadaisical vacation posture and attitude. It was as if the chair I was sitting in had split and shattered, spilling my drink and dropping me to the ground. I quickly sat up, pushed the glass aside, and concentrated on each of my mother’s words. I realized that this was a conversation I needed to hear and repeat. Remembrances of parents who died are sources of great emotional upheaval and confusion to the children who outlive them, especially at momentous events. There is an eternal sense of loss and abandonment that gnaws on the survivors at pivotal occasions in their lives – especially moments that are transformative. I experienced just such a moment of transcendent happiness with the marriage of my daughter and Joe. I made a point of mentioning Joe’s deceased mother and father, Mary and Leonard, at the reception (see Nothing to Do With Me), but I had failed to recognize Prisa’s missing grandparents, my father, Antonio, and Kathy’s mother, Mary. I was preoccupied with the tasks and details of the wedding and the reception. I didn’t have the time, or the inclination to dwell on parents long dead (my dad since 1971, and Mary since 2006). Kathy, however, made two references to her mother that day, stating that she must have been channeling Mary’s spirit at a stressful moment during the preparations at the house and again during the reception. Now, on a summer evening in Ventura, my mother, Maria del Rosario, was calling up Mary’s spirit and words in a nostalgic monologue:

 

“Sabes Toñito, one of my biggest regrets is not having cultivated a stronger friendship with Kathy’s mother. I always liked and admired her. From the moment we were first introduced at Lakeside Country Club to the last time at your party, Mary era muy amable, cariñosa, y bien educada, and she passed these same qualities to Kathy and her sisters. We should have been better friends, but I never learned to drive (another regret) so I depended on family birthdays, parties, and gatherings to meet, chat, and keep up on our children. Nunca querida molestar a nadie, so I never asked for a ride to visit her at her home. These family occasions became less frequent as your children grew older and the Doctor and Mary retired to Capistrano Beach, and then relocated to Pasadena. I remember como si fuera ayer, when we met for the last time at your house. We sat close together on the couch near the sliding glass door, watching the children enter and leave. She leaned close to me and spoke very intently y con mucha confianza. We created a small timeless bubble of honesty and she told me how proud she was of Prisa and her accomplishments – college, graduate school, and two years of high school teaching, all in the space of 6 years. She saw Prisa growing up to be just like her mother. They were smart, determined, funny, and caring women – but most important no tolerában tonterías o mentíras (they didn’t put up with nonsense and lies). She said that despite her failing eyesight and hearing (or perhaps because of them), she was becoming more and more aware of the unique qualities and characters of her children. Mary prayed that she would have the chance to speak privately with each one, telling them of her insights and unconditional love for them. Pero tambien me díjo que Kathy made people happy. She worried about others and put them first. She was intrinsically caring and loving, and fiercely loyal to her family. Mary hoped that she had conveyed these sentiments, especially after one of Kathy’s “flying visits” to Capistrano. Mary told me how Kathy would drive from Canoga Park, picking up Prisa at LMU, and then continuing the two-hour journey in the carpool lane to their house on Beach Road. Those sudden and unexpected appearances were so delightful, that Mary found it hard to express her gratitude. Prisa would accompany the doctor in a walk on the beach, and Kathy and her mother would talk privately of their lives and their joys. Mary was unsure she had adequately communicated her pride and happiness at seeing the woman and mother Kathy had become”.

As my mom talked of these things, I knew that Mary was speaking through her. Reaching across time and eternity, Mary was transmitting a message to her daughter and granddaughter and telling them how much she loved them and how proud she was of their accomplishments and the wedding. I knew I needed to do more than listen to this tale of remembrance; I was being commissioned to deliver a report to my daughter and wife. It would be a difficult tale to tell, because I realized that I missed Mary too, and in repeating her messages to her daughter and granddaughter, the pain of her absence would gather new strength. I finally admitted to myself that I had deliberately ignored Mary’s presence on the day of the wedding. I wouldn’t acknowledge that her spirit was present in her daughter and granddaughter’s thoroughness and care in their preparations, in their attention to detail and the people who were providing the services and products, and in the serenity they emanated to everyone who observed them on that day. Before hanging up, I thanked my mom for telling me about Mary, and making me promise to tell Kathy and Prisa. I also told her I loved her.

 

That evening, after three abortive attempts, I finally told Kathy of this conversation with my mother. It was close to impossible repeating the scenes and images my mom described. Strangling hands of grief and pain reached up and choked off the words I was trying to piece together. In a very fractured form, stopping between sobs and gasps of air, I managed to recount a facsimile of my mother’s story. This was the price I paid for denial. Mary would have told me to just relax, take a deep breath, and tell the tale as if she were in the room talking. She would sit comfortably on a couch, always leaning toward to the person she was addressing, to better see and hear them. Her clothes would be bright and crisp, and her speech would be sharp and to the point:

“Kathy, the wedding was beautiful, and Prisa looked gorgeous. You were right on the dot about the dresses; they looked great. I loved the flowers, and the lighting of the church was excellent. Father Sal did a great job with the ceremony, not too long, but taking the time to make Prisa and Joe comfortable and establishing their connections to church, school and family.  A marriage needs a lot of love and patience, and religious faith is a great help in troubled times. I don't want you to ever question the time, effort, and expense you put into this wedding. I married off 8 girls and the expense was well worth their memories. That was a wonderful day for Prisa and Joe, you and Tony, and everyone there. They will talk about it all their lives. A wedding is a small gift to give a daughter, and Prisa deserved it. I wish I could have been there for you both, but all I could do was watch. I’m very proud of what you have done as a mother and what Prisa has accomplished as a woman, teacher, and now a wife. I’m glad I was able to meet and get to know Joe before I died. He’s a fine young man, and he married an excellent woman. I’ll always be here when you or Prisa need me. Now I need to visit Beth and Brenna. Goodbye sweetheart”.

 “Tony, let me put it to you in two words: ‘the Blues’. That’s what it’s all about, and you knew it once. You need to get back to that time; when you used to go to the Blues Festival in Long Beach every year”.
Alex, my youngest brother, was waxing wise. It seemed that my daughter’s wedding was affecting him as much as me, but his symptoms were different. He had come over to my table during the reception to hug me again, pound me on the back numerous times, and praise me effusively for maintaining a “classy open bar”. Then he sat next to me, explaining his struggles of coming to grips with Prisa’s sudden transformation into “a married women”. I was only half listening, when his sudden detour to the Blues recaptured my attention.
“I still enjoy the Blues, Alex” I replied, not understanding what the Blues had to do with Prisa’s marriage. “They’re just not as important now as they once were. I was going to the Blues Festival during some really difficult times of my life, years of conflict and struggle. The Blues got me through those times; and the Festival let me see and hear the great Bluesmen like Buddy Guy, Taj Mahal, and John Lee Hooker”.
 “So, wouldn’t you want to see them again?” he countered, moving closer to me. “John Lee’s dead, you know. A whole generation of Black blues artists are fading away; don’t you want to see them one last time?”
“No thanks, Al” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “I’ll leave that to you. The blues were meant for younger men still struggling with careers and life’s injustices. I’m not in that situation right now. I’ve moved on to other things and other types of music. The Blues introduced me to Jazz. It was the portal to a whole new genre of music which I enjoy”.
“Jazz” he sneered back, making the word sound like a strangled cough. “Do you know what they say about jazz in the movie, The Commitments?”
“That’s the movie about the Irish band, right? I asked.
“Yeah, that’s the one. In the movie the old musician tells the young sax player that Jazz is the opposite of the Blues. He says that the Blues are the only honest music, the music that comes straight from the heart. The Blues grab you by the balls and lift you above the shit of life”.
“So we’re back to you favorite debating trick, aren’t we Alex?”
“What’s that?” he asked, taken by surprise.
“You know, supporting your argument by offering a movie quotation. You really stand by that notion in the movie The Grand Canyon. How does it go? All life’s truths are in the movies”.
“Oh, you mean, ‘All of life’s riddles are answered in the movies’. Yeah, I do, because they are”.


Actually, Alex misquoted the musician, Joey “The Lips” Fagin, and he confused the Blues with Soul in the movie The Commitments. Joey says, “Soul is the antithesis of Jazz”; and it is Jimmy Rabbitte, the band’s founder and manager, who said Soul “says it straight from the heart. Sure there’s a lot of different music you can get off on, but Soul is more than that. It takes you somewhere else. It grabs you by the balls and lifts you above the shite”. Alex can be forgiven these citation errors about the Blues, because it was the supporting premise to his argument that caught my attention and stayed with me after the wedding.


Are all of life’s riddles answered in the movies? I happen to agree with Alex, because I think they are too. The two movies we mentioned at the wedding are sufficient to begin my short essay on this subject. I’m not one to memorize movie lines, like my younger brothers, Eddie and Alex, or my children, Tony and Prisa. However, some lines stick with me, and stay with me for a long time (Even though my children will roll their eyes at my attempts at quoting those lines). This happened with The Grand Canyon (1992) and The Commitments (1991). These movies were very well written, and they both contain eccentric, but believable, characters who had great lines, and were excellently portrayed. The Commitments (novel by Roddy Doyle, and screenplay by Dick Clement) had Joey “The Lips” Fagin (Johnny Murphy) and Jimmy Rabbitte (Robert Arkins), and The Grand Canyon (written and directed by Lawrence  Kasdan) had Davis (Steve Martin), the cynical Hollywood producer who makes gratuitously violent movies, and Simon (Danny Glover), the struggling, African American tow-truck driver.


The Grand Canyon has the distinction of posing my central premise and then answering it with a dose of concrete reality.
Davis says: “That’s part of your problem – you haven’t seen enough movies. All of life’s riddles are answered in the movies”.
In another part of the movie, Simon says: “You ever been to the Grand Canyon? It’s pretty; but that’s not the thing of it. You can sit on the edge of that old thing and those rocks. The cliffs and the rocks are so old. It took so long for that thing to get like that; and it isn’t done either! It happens right there while you’re watching it. It’s happening right now as we are sitting here in this ugly town (Los Angeles). When you sit on the edge of that thing, you realize what a joke we people really are. What big heads we have thinking that what we do is going to matter all that much. Thinking that our time here means diddly to those rocks. Just a split second we have been here, the whole lot of us. That’s a piece of time so small to even get a name. Those rocks are laughing at me right now - me and my worries. Yeah, it’s real humorous, that Grand Canyon. It’s laughing at me right now. You know what I felt like? I felt like a gnat that lands on the ass of a cow chewing his cud on the side of the road that you drive by doing 70 mph”.


The Commitments offered another take on humanity’s struggle for happiness when Joey the Lips gave Jimmy Rabbitte this bit of sage advice after the band broke up in a babble of anger and bitter argument.
Joey: “Look, I know you’re hurting’ now, but in time you’ll realize what you’ve achieved”.
Jimmy: “I’ve achieved nothing!”
Joey: “You’re missin’ the point. The success of the band was irrelevant. You raised their expectations of life. You lifted their horizons. Sure we could have been famous and made albums and stuff, but that would have been predictable. This way it’s poetry.”


Joey the Lips’ suggestion that our pursuit of perfection (in relationships, careers, music, and art) is the poetry of life, is my favorite movie saying. What’s yours? I’ve never proposed any active interaction with my blog, but I’m curious. Whether or not you subscribe to the idea that “all of life’s riddles are answered in the movies”, what is your favorite movie quote or saying (no fair submitting the American Film Institute’s 100 Top Movie Quotes unless you think of one first)? I encourage you to respond by commenting on the blog or by emailing me. I hope to read your favorite piece of movie advice, or saying.


Hasta la vista, baby.

I know a girl
She puts the color inside of my world,
But she’s just like a maze
Where all of the walls
All continually change.
And I’ve done all that I can
To stand on her steps
With my heart in my hand.
Now I’m starting to see
Maybe it’s got nothing to do with me.

Fathers, be good to your daughters.
Daughters will love like you do.
Girls become lovers
Who turn into mothers,
So mothers,
Be good to your daughters too.
(Daughters, lyrics and music by John Mayer)

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“Are you ready?” I asked softly, looking straight ahead and placing my right-hand over my daughter’s, as she took my left arm at the rear of the church. We were suddenly alone, during the break in the processional order.
“Yea, dad, I’m ready” she replied, keeping her head forward and giving my arm a reassuring squeeze as she released a deep breath.
Dee, the wedding coordinator, had shut the wide doors at the departure of the Maid of Honor. The pause gave me a chance to reassess my immediate surroundings for the last time. The doors facing noisy Topanga Canyon Boulevard had been closed for the processional march. With the breeze and traffic cut off, the lobby of the church was hotter and quieter than ever. Religious pamphlets, holy pictures, and scattered copies of last Sunday’s bulletin lined the display shelves and counters against the wall. Our only companion was the life-sized replica of Jesus in the Tomb, awaiting Easter morning in a glass case at the far end of the lobby. Only moments ago, the mahogany-hued room had been filled with a dozen members of the family and wedding party, lining up in marching order. Toñito’s tall and angular frame buttressed the fragile and slight figures of his surviving grandparents, my mother, and Kathy’s father.

Three slender maidens, dressed in elegantly simple, lapis lazuli gowns acted as a buffer for Prisa and her Maid of Honor. Brigid, Prisa’s cousin, and Staci and Maria, Prisa’s long-time roommates, were the first line of defense, assistance, and humor. They had been sensitive to all the mood changes and difficulties that arose over the last two days. Next to them stood Prisa and Katie. Best Friends since high school, they provided each other the comfort and fierce loyalty that only 15 years of shared experiences can bring. This day was one of the moments they had talked about and visualized as girls, fulfilling the promise to be present for each other in times of great importance. As Maid of Honor, Katie had been a one-woman entourage through the engagement process, matrimonial preparations, bridal showers, and spontaneous crises. My wife and I stood silently to one side watching these groups interact, each of us lost in our own thoughts and emotions. We would catch each others eye periodically and smile, but neither of us could offer solace or advice as to how to handle the feelings that were sweeping over us as we looked upon our daughter, her wedding party, our son, and our parents standing in front of us. Soon each pair and individual member of the procession departed through the doors at their designated time and interval. Now Prisa and I were the last two people standing in the warm hush of the church vestibule.

 

I feared this moment all week. I had peevishly refused to think about what I would do or say. Since the day (See July 1, 2006) Prisa first mentioned the possibility of marrying Joe, the logical side of my brain and the emotional side had been fighting a seesaw battle over how to deal with a wedding: Would everything be different after this event? Was I losing my daughter forever? Or, did anything REALLY change after the ceremony; and wouldn’t Prisa always be my daughter, my little girl? Rather than engaging in this spiraling dive into madness, I avoided it. I blocked all thoughts of the wedding and it's planning throughout the engagement year. Luckily I had been studying Prisa and her mother during the last two weeks, especially the morning of the wedding. They had been cool and confident in all of their preliminary planning, organization, and implementations. Everything was coming together as smoothly and efficiently as they had visualized and discussed; but today, as the wedding party dressed for the ceremony, Prisa and Kathy were becoming increasingly anxious. They were having trouble accepting the unexpected events and independent actions of others. I was on the verge of giving Prisa some Principal’s clichés about relaxing and going with the flow of the day, when a sharp look from Katie stopped me. I’d been ready to draw some theoretical parallel between her wedding to other large-scale and stressful school events that I was familiar with, like graduation. When I saw the Maid of Honor step up with the alertness of a lioness protecting her cub, and giving me a medusa-like gaze of warning, I reconsidered. Giving practical fatherly or principal advice was not going to relieve today’s nerves and anxiety. From that point on I decided to be quiet and helpful, by letting Katie and the other girls do the talking and the rescuing. This last moment alone at the back of the church was not about me, or my sense of loss, it was about Prisa. Today was her day. She loved this guy named Joe and was committed to building a future with him. The only thing I needed to do was be present, loving, and supportive. I had been present at her birth, and at every significant (and insignificant) moment of her life. This was one just one more moment in that life, and I would continue to be around her for a long, long time.

The doors swung open and Dee reappeared, holding up her hand for us to wait for the musical cue. Soon we heard Danny, Prisa’s cousin, playing the introductory chords to Wagner’s traditional Wedding March on the altar piano.
“That’s it” Dee whispered, moving to one side to let us process forward.
Prisa and I took one step and stopped. Without speaking or signaling to each other, but sensing our mutual wonder, we paused to gaze at the spectacle assembled before us. Having honored the nuptial tradition to avoid seeing or being seen by the groom at the front of the church, Prisa and I had no clue as to the size or identity of the gathering within. I tightened my hold of Prisa’s hand and let my eyes scan the multitude. A vast sea of bright and glowing faces extended before us, and wave after wave of beaming smiles seemed to swell up from both sides of the aisle and crash over us. I will always remember the oceanic scope of that vision, because I cannot recall the name of any one particular person in that huge crowd. Prisa told me later that the only person she recognized by name was her uncle John. We resumed our measured walk down the aisle in rhythm with the music from Lohengrin, when I noticed a gaggle of unfamiliar teenage girls smiling, waving, and pushing their cameras and each other forward to get as close as possible to us as we walked by.
“That’s my basketball team” Prisa whispered in explanation, without moving her lips or breaking her smile. “They told me they were coming”.
Our slow motion walk continued in this dreamlike, timeless state, until I saw Joe moving from his mark at the far side of the church toward the crossroads point in front of the altar. This was the bride-exchange we practiced the night before at the rehearsal; but I had avoided deciding what I would say to Joe, or how I would release Prisa. Upon reaching my mark at the second pew, I simply released my hold on Prisa and moved to embrace Joe.
“I love you Joe” was all I could think to say, as I hugged him. I took his left hand, placing it in the bride’s right, and then kissed her cheek saying “I love you, little girl”.
“I love you too, Dad” she replied with a knowing smile.
With that I stepped into the pew and joined my bride of 34 years to watch the wedding of our daughter.

While discussing the upcoming marriage at dinner the week before, our longtime friend Kathy (See Christmas Adam) gave us some sound advice. “Just concentrate on the wedding ceremony; that’s the important part. The rest is just a party”. As it turned out, she was right, especially with a Catholic nuptial wedding. As soon as the presiding celebrant, Father Sal, descended the altar to greet the bride and groom, along with the assembled congregation, Prisa and Joe were enveloped in the safety and comfort of the Catholic mass and the Sacrament of Matrimony. I could almost see them taking deep breaths of air and finally relaxing (Or was that me finally breathing and relaxing?). From this point onward, a priest they had known for many years would guide them through an age-old ceremony and ritual in Prisa’s home church. Prisa and her family had celebrated mass in this Church for 21 years. She had attended the parish school since third grade. This was her home parish, and the mass that would surround the marriage ceremony was as natural to her, Joe, and their families, as waking up in the morning. In the Catholic-Christian tradition, a nuptial mass is a long and wondrous event that is also a sacrament. If my memory served me right, a sacrament, as defined by the Baltimore Catechism, “is an outward sign, instituted by God, to give grace”. We believe that a Catholic marriage takes a civil transaction, which is performed every day in courts and chapels throughout the world, and infuses it with God’s grace and love during the outward and public exchange of rings and promises. The mass that follows is another sacramental layer. In sharing the Eucharist (the Body and Blood of Christ) we commemorate the recurring truth that God “so loved us” that He “sent his only Son into the world so that we might have life through Him”. We are therefore reminded, “If God so loved us; we also must love one another” (Second Reading – 1 John, 4:7-12).

These sacraments do not exclude the involvement of the bride and groom. Although the steps, movements, and rituals have not changed for centuries, Prisa and Joe were deeply involved in planning the liturgy and identifying the participants. They had chosen the music and musicians, the readings and readers, the petitions and petitioners, and all the other participants. Her cousin Danny would play the music. Her brother and Joe’s Aunt Lillian would read selections from the Old and New Testament. Her mother and Joe’s sister, Lisa, would light the family Unity Candle. Four of Prisa’s cousins, Caitlin, Brenna, Marisa, and Maria,  would read their petitions. Joe’s “adopted parents” Salvador and Rosa would bring up the “gifts” of bread and wine for the Eucharist, and Prisa’s aunt and uncle, Patti and Dick, would act as Eucharistic ministers during communion. That afternoon, the families and friends of Prisa and Joe united with the Catholic Church to surround them, embrace them, love them, and witness their vows and commitment to each other. The sacramental ceremonies ended when Father Sal formerly introduced the newly minted spouses to the congregation and Prisa and Joe kissed as husband and wife.  Danny provided an additional family-insider touch by beginning Beethoven's Ode to Joy with an opening riff from Los Pereginos, the traditional song from the Mexican Posadas sung at my mother’s Christmas Eve party. Once the wedding was over, only the party at the country club remained.

I never relaxed at the reception until I took off my tie after finishing my toast and dancing with my daughter. Those two tasks loomed over me like vultures waiting to swoop down and tear my flesh with thoughts of panic and loss. Since those two activities did not occur until after dinner, I was looking at a long afternoon and evening. The agenda called for cocktails by the pool while wedding photographs were taken, then moving to the dining room for the traditional sequence of events: entrance of the bridal party with the bride and groom, dancing to a DJ, dining, and finally toasts and the father-daughter dance. In the meantime everyone else seemed to be having a good time. I kept myself entertained by chatting with relatives and old friends, posing for photographs with the bride and groom, and restaging photos of our own marriage 34 years ago with Kathy and our 1975 wedding party. After dinner, the DJ finally introduced the toasts and my moment had come. Kathy and I went onto the dance floor together and, while Joe and Prisa listened, I gave my toast:

“Good evening ladies and gentlemen, and family and friends of Joe and Teresa. My name is Tony, and I’m the Father of the Bride and Joe’s new Father-in-law.

I want to take a moment to thank my lovely wife Kathy, for taking the lead in planning and organizing these festivities along with Prisa and Joe. The wedding, ceremony, reception, and dinner have been lovely.

Kathy and I have known Joe for about 5 years. First as the mysterious Serra High School teacher who was dating our daughter, and later as the serious and conscientious suitor who was willing to brave the scrutiny and interrogations by family members and friends at countless parties and dinners during Christmas and the holidays. It was during these family gauntlets that we realized that Prisa saw something special in this young man, and believed in him. Over the years, we saw why.

If you’ve noticed, I interchange the names Teresa and Prisa. Some of you know her by one name, some by both. She was actually named after the great Spanish, woman saint, mystic, and Doctor of the Church, St. Teresa of Avila. However, her brother Tony, who was two years older, found it tiresome to pronounce all three syllables at once – so he shortened them to two, and softened the “T” sound to “P”: Te/ree/sa became Pree/sa. Today, through a sacramental re-balancing, we add a new 3-syllable name, Mac/door/man – Te/ree/sa Mac/door/man. That was the joke.

A marriage is the sum of a logarithmic equation (okay, perhaps I wrote this toast with a blog in mind) of countless families, parents, and grandparents that flows back in time on an eternal thread. At this moment, Teresa and Joe are the evolving products of the love and expectations that their parents invested in them. Kathy and I are very fortunate to be here today to witness this sacrament and these ceremonies; and it is only fitting to take a moment to remember and honor the memory of Leonard and Mary, the parents of Joe and Lisa, who were not able to be here today. Even without their physical presence, they are here in spirit, and in their son and daughter. We were never able to meet or know Mary or Leonard, but Kathy and I recognize them through the actions, character, and choices of their children. I’m confident that they would be as happy and proud of this union as we are today.

I have a confession to make – Teresa is my favorite daughter. There have been specific, crossroad moments in time when she has been transfigured to Kathy and me – times when we saw her transformed into someone new and different, right before our eyes. This happened at the OLV May Crowning in 1994, when she stopped being a little girl and turned into a young lady. It occurred on her return from Kairos, when we looked at each other through new eyes of love and understanding. It happened during her graduation from Louisville High School when we saw her gowned and garlanded like a Jane Austen debutante ready to challenge and master college and the world; and again when she graduated from Loyola Marymount University and said she wanted to pursue a Master’s degree, teaching credential, and a career in education. But I don’t think that I’ve ever seen her as beautiful and radiant as I do today. Today she changed into a woman and a wife, right before our very eyes.

It is with a heart brimming with joy and happiness that I ask you to join Kathy and me in blessing this union of Joe and Prisa. Please raise your glasses to Prisa and Joe and wish them a long and healthy life, filled with great love, great happiness, and great faith in each other.  To Joe and Prisa”.

 With that Prisa and Joe came forward to hug us, and I took my daughter into my arms for our dance. We had attempted a brief and awkward rehearsal two nights before, but I was trusting that the actual moment would inspire me into more graceful and fluid movements. The song we selected was perfectly suited for that magic moment, and it swept us up and turned us, momentarily, into a modern version of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Paul Simon’s song, Father and Daughter, had always been my favorite because it perfectly described the feelings a father has for his daughter. On this evening it became my song, and I joined Paul in serenading my little girl as we swayed and danced together:

If you leap awake
In the mirror of a bad dream,
And for a fraction of a second
You can’t remember where you are.
Just open your window
And follow your memory upstream.
To the meadow in the mountain
Where we counted every falling star.

I believe the light that shines on you
Will shine on you forever,
And though I can’t guarantee
There’s nothing scary hiding under your bed,
I’m gonna stand guard
Like a postcard of a Golden Retriever
And never leave till I leave you
With a sweet dream in your head.

I’m gonna watch you shine
Gonna watch you grow,
Gonna paint a sign
So you’ll always know
As long as one and one is two,
There could never be a father
Who loved his daughter more than I love you.
(Father and Daughter: music and lyrics by Paul Simon)

With the conclusion of that dance, the party ended for me. I took off my tie and I awaited the end of the celebration with Kathy and my three brothers-in-law, who would one day have to experience the weddings of the their daughters.

 

A candy-colored clown they call the sandman

Tiptoes to my room every night,

Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper

Go to sleep. Everything is all right.

 

I close my eyes, then I drift away

Into the magic night. I softly say

A silent prayer, like dreamers do.

Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you.

 

In dreams I walk with you.

In dreams I talk to you.

In dreams you’re mine.

All of the time we’re together

In dreams, in dreams.

 

But just before the dawn, I awake and find you gone.

I can’t help it; I can’t help it, if I cry.

I remember that you said goodbye.

It’s too bad that all these things,

Can only happen in my dreams;

Only in dreams, in beautiful dreams.

(In Dreams, Roy Orbison: 1963)

 

Sometimes I mix up my earliest childhood memories with dreams. I can’t tell the dream-like pictures from actual events. The first scene I remember is of an infant being lifted in the air, in the strong arms of a man with black, curly hair and a pencil-thin moustache. Looking down at the face of the smiling man, the babe was filled with the excitement only supreme confidence can bring. He panned the surrounding landscape in a 180 degree swivel of his head and looked down to see a young woman with light wavy hair, wearing a white linen blouse, looking up at him. She held her arms up close to her chest as if ready to catch or snatch the infant from the arms of the man. There were a handful of scruffy-looking children surrounding her, dressed in loose-fitting dresses and tee shirts. They laughed and giggled at the sight, encouraging the man to toss the baby into the air. The babe, held high in the sky, smiled down at them.
 

 

The clearest dream I recall is with a silhouetted house on a hill. It was an old wooden house with a triangular framed porch façade. A cement pathway divided two patches of park-like, coarse grass that extended like a thick green carpet with a grey stripe running down the middle. There was a chubby-faced 5 year old boy, wearing an over-sized, faded checkered shirt and blue jeans rolled up at the cuffs. He held his sister’s hand. She was a little girl, one or two years younger than her brother, with a large, white bow in her light, brown hair. He pointed to the house with his free hand.

“That’s our house” he announced to another boy, the girl’s twin, standing next to him.

“Then why does it look different?” the sandy-haired boy challenged, shaking his head in doubt. The smaller boy was correct; the house was wrong - but the older brother couldn’t accept the anomaly. They followed what he believed would have been their father’s instructions. They had recognized  all the landmarks and familiar sights. So why did their house look and feel different?

“I don’t know” he confessed, “but everything else is right. Let’s go in”.

“Wait a minute, Tony” the girl interrupted, squeezing his hand tightly in alarm. “What if it’s somebody else’s house?”

“It’s not” Tony replied firmly. “I’m sure this is where we’ll find Mom and Dad. I’m sure this is home”.
 

 

They had traveled a long way. Starting from the towering Sears Building in Boyle Heights, they had followed the railroad tracks to Griffith Park, and then crossed the hills through Elysian Park. They fought back their rising panic by pointing and calling out names of the places and sights they had visited with their parents on previous occasions. The older brother couldn’t remember what had happened to their parents in the department store. One minute they were looking at ice boxes and the next they were gone. He told his twin siblings that this was a new game he wanted to play; but they were becoming suspicious and apprehensive. Thankfully, they were being assisted in their journey by some kind of miraculous spell. This magical power was not only sedating his fears and giving him the words to destract and reassure his younger siblings, but it was also speeding their progress. Although apparently walking, they seemed to appear at each locale, as if transported from spot to spot, and place to place, by a mystical force. But the enchantment had evaporated in front of this house, and the magic had stopped. He could feel the heavy stillness of this moment. Darkness began to spread over the sky; covering the sun as they slowly approached the beckoning house.

“Mommy, daddy!” the girl shouted, plaintively; starting to cry when no sounds emerged from the sullen house.

“Shhh” the older boy scolded, “Tita, be quiet!” He squelched back the same urge to call out for help, sensing that it would only provoke his own tears. “They can’t hear you. They probably went to sleep waiting for us to come home”.

“I’ll go see” the sandy-haired brother shouted as he bolted forward, running up the porch stairs and disappearing behind the slamming screen door.

“Tito!” they called out together, too late to grab or restrain him. The skinny boy was swallowed by the ominous, but strangely familiar house that wasn’t quite their home. The adrenaline rush from Tito’s rash actions unfroze their legs and the pair finally started moving forward again, hand in hand.

“Tito, Tito” he whispered, peeking his head into the mahogany tinted room as Tita held back the screen door. They glided into the living room as if on skates, and then coasted through a series of rooms. Suddenly Tito reappeared at their side.

“Tony, follow me” he said, motioning with his arm, “I found Gracie!” He led them quickly into a draped and darkened room, with old wallpaper of faded pink and yellow flowers. There was a tall, lacy bassinet in the middle of the floor. Looking into the cradle, they saw a small, blonde, curly-haired baby girl sleeping peacefully. Her gentle breathing only heightened the gloomy wrongness of the setting.

“Where’s mommy and daddy?” keened Tita, letting go of her brother’s hand and bringing them both up to her eyes to hold back the cascading tears.

“I don’t know” moaned Tony, finally giving up and letting his despair flow out through his tears. Slowly, Tito stepped between the weeping pair and took their hands, sealing the sibling circle around the bassinet. He closed his eyes, whispered five words,  and firmly squeezed the hands of his brother and sister.
 

 
Struggling to release the strangled wail that caught in my throat, I awoke from my first nightmare. Gasping for breath and touching my cheeks for evidence of the tears I had wept in my sleep, it took me a long time to calm down. I didn’t relax until I'd made a bed check to see that Tito, Tita, my mom and dad, and Gracie were all accounted for. Slipping back into my bed, I stayed awake until daybreak, afraid to go back to sleep.

 

This week I started a Dream Book. I never took the idea of a dream journal seriously. I recall Frosty, a school psychologist and Kathy’s friend from college, keeping one and telling me about its benefits many years ago; and my own therapist strongly recommended one during my three years of counseling. Although I respected their opinions, and understood the importance of dreaming, I never followed their advice. I thought dreams were naturally occurring phenomena and, if they were truly important, I would always remember them in the morning and throughout the day. Yet, when I took the time to reflect on them and analyze their content and images, it struck me that the dreams I tended to remember were in fact nightmares, and they were recurrent during certain periods of my life.

 

Nightmares like my old dream of being lost or abandoned in Sears as a child were the ones that haunted me for years. The themes of those disturbing dreams might change with age and my emotional stages of development, but they were definitely nightmares. I could track my dream life as the theatrical offerings of a long running season, showing abandonment dreams in childhood, war and conflict dreams in adolescence, and closing with witch and serpent dreams at puberty through young adulthood. The details of all other dreams (falling dreams, going to school undressed dreams, and anthropomorphic dreams, in which I changed into someone else while still, somehow, remaining myself) slowly dissipated upon waking, and dissolved by morning. These were the ordinary dreams that I shed daily, as effortlessly and thoughtlessly as skin.
 

 

Lately, I’d been dreaming – a lot. With my daughter’s upcoming marriage, looming retirement, and preparing to leave my office, school and career, I was experiencing a multitude of dreams. It seemed as if every evening or early morning, I would awaken for a moment, fully conscious of the dream I was having, and then go back to sleep; whereupon the remnants of that dream would transform themselves into another dream. However, by the time I actually arose from bed to write my Morning Pages, all clear details of those dreams had dissipated. I was beginning to feel a real loss from this evaporation. There was a whole world of fantastic and impossible images, scenes, faeries, elves, and monsters dancing in my mind in these early morning dreams and I was letting them fade away and disappear – like Brigadoon. This had never bothered me before, but suddenly it did.

 

Perhaps it was the book I was reading – Becoming a Writer, by Dorothea Brande, that finally pushed me into action. The author emphasized the need to harness one’s unconscious so that it would flow into the pictures and metaphors that writers use in their work. It struck me that I shouldn’t rely on the images and descriptions modeled by other authors and writers.  I had my own reservoir of scenes in dreams that were never recorded. I visited these wonderful places every night, but I never remembered the details. Until that moment, using a Dream Book only seemed an invitation to interrupt my sleep; something I especially hated doing during the work week. But I would soon no longer need that excuse. On June 30^th I would no longer have a job, career, or profession. With retirement, I could easily afford to spend 10 minutes jotting down dreams without worrying about falling immediately back to sleep. An equation came into my head:

 

To Retire (Jubilarse in Spanish, or “jubilation”) = Dreaming + Recording (or Writing).

 

What a wonderful formula for retirement! It almost sounded like a Dream Quest. Now came the hard part; how could I apply this theoretical equation and engineer something new? What would be the device to make this happen?
 

 

The answer came at work on Monday. I was packing and cleaning out my office when I discovered a brand new “Project Planner” notebook in my desk. This was the only type of notebook I used to record all my business interactions, phone calls, and professional encounters. I preferred this particular brand, as opposed to a stenographer’s notebook, because it provided a wide margin on the left-side of the page for summaries, generalizations, and reflective comments or drawings. It was the all-purpose, daily “work journal” that I’d kept faithfully for 17 years. I had just boxed an unbroken chain of notebooks dating back to my first assignment as principal of Fire Mountain Middle School in 1991, to my last in 2009. As I held this last, unused notebook in my hand, I wondered “What will become of this practice now?” I hated the idea of tossing away a brand new notebook, so I stuck it in my bag and took it home. When I fished it out that evening, the answer hit me. A Dream Book! I could transform my Project Planner into a dream book. It would be the rebirth, the renaissance of an old friend; my notebook would evolve from projects to dreams.

 

On Tuesday night, I set my new Dream Book on my nightstand, along with a pencil, next to the alarm clock. This would be a test. I would see if I could find a way to tap into my unconscious. I fell asleep reading Barack Obama’s autobiography, Dreams from My Father.  I awoke at 1 o’clock after a disturbing series of dreams and remembered to reach for my journal and write down as much as possible. It was difficult keeping my eyes open, and it required an effort to recall specific details and actions. They were disappearing like smoke rings being grasped by a child’s hand. I wrote what I could and then read myself back to sleep. That morning, while writing my Morning Pages, I described the first dream I recorded in my Dream Book.

 It began nicely enough and then turned bizarre. I was standing next to President Barack Obama on the production set of a T.V. game show. The show involved overcoming three trials or challenges. These games were spread out and displayed at different locations on the set. We were being televised from an antique theatre with thick, velvety drapes and curtains, which were old and worn. I looked toward the crowd that was clapping and cheering for us, but I saw no one through the harsh lighting coming from the overhead scaffolding. A spotlight shone on a tall and hideously mascara-ed circus ringmaster who was tossing large, brightly colored disks onto the worn and warped stage floor. The round objects hit the wooden floor with a wet, sucking sound. The other two upcoming challenges were now hidden from view, pushed off to the side of the stage. Then the towering ringmaster, who looked like a garish Richard Dawson with a melon slice, Cheshire cat smile pasted on his face, started the game. The lighting switched, and the stage shifted from bright and colorful, to a dark and ominous set. The fluorescent disks slowly turned pale and mushy, like rotting flesh. They sprouted sharp, jagged teeth which began to grow and expand along the edges. Suddenly the flat, rounded disks bent inward and became independently snapping jaws, with shark-like teeth. They became menacing versions of the clacking teeth that were sold as toys in my youth – only these weren’t toys. They were voracious devourers of everything, swarming over the stage and filling the auditorium, like a wave of big jawed rats. They were everywhere, climbing the curtains, ropes, poles, and stage work. They snapped and clacked as they hopped along the floor, climbed up walls, and hung on the ceiling. The venue was covered with them. They bit and devoured everything they encountered: walls, bars, wood, steel scaffolding, and pipes. Suddenly the auditorium filled with dark, murky water. Instead of halting these grotesque clamping teeth, the water only fueled them, causing them to expand and increase in size and number. They developed deformed fish bodies with massively, over-sized, needle-sharp teeth. The auditorium also changed and was transformed into a beach and lake front. The large and slimy, piranha-like creatures were leaving the water and swarming the beach. They blanketed the bronzed and white skinned sunbathers and loungers in endless waves, biting and chewing off their flesh.

 

 

The two contestants, Obama and I, were watching these revolting scenes as if through a thick, bullet-proof glass. We saw what was happening, but were unable to do anything except stand and watch. I was secretly relieved at being isolated and safe, but confused that such an innocent game could turn into a horror movie reminiscent of Stephen King’s Langoliers.  Then the entire scene changed again. I was walking alone, along a long, dark corridor that was cave-like and claustrophobic. I was walking down the hallway of MASH Middle School, inspecting the fire and water damage from an act of school vandalism and arson. Smoke still hung in the air, and it clung to the cavernous walls and ceilings. I walked up to my office door and looked inside. I could hear the drip, drip, drip of water which sounded like the slow, chattering of teeth. Looking down I saw a slithering, silvery scaled fish on the ground. It was grinning at me, as it flopped about in its final death throes. That was the point I awoke from my dream.

Kathleen Mavourneen, the grey dawn is breaking,

The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill.

The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking,

Kathleen Mavourneen, what! Slumbering still?

 

Oh, hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever?

Oh, hast thou forgotten this day we must part?

It may be for years, and it may be forever,

Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?

It may be for years and it may be forever,

Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

 

Mavourneen, Mavourneen, my sad tears are falling,

To think that from Erin and thee I must part!

It may be for years, and it may be forever,

Then why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?

It may be for years and it may be forever.

Then why art thou silent, Kathleen Mavourneen?

(Kathleen Mavourneen: Composed by Fredrick Crouch, with lyrics by Marion Crawford - 1837.) 
 

 

Mavourneen is a term of endearment
From the Irish-Gaelic mo mhuirnín,

Meaning, “My Beloved”.

 
The Merrian-Webster Dictionary defines an epiphany as “a sudden manifestation of perception of the essential nature or meaning of something; an intuitive grasp of reality through something (as an event) usually simple and striking; an illuminating discovery; a revealing scene or moment”. I never seriously considered this elaborate definition of the word until I read James Joyce’s A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in college. Previously, epiphany was simply the Catholic Church’s celebration of the Feast of the Three Kings on January 6; the occasion when Jesus Christ was “revealed”, “manifested”, or “shown” as the Messiah to the Magi who traveled from the East. Joyce mixed the secular and religious aspects of the word into a series of spiritual revelations in the actions and thoughts of his protagonist, Stephen Dedalus. The novel is an odyssey of epiphanies, culminating in Stephen’s realization that he must flee Ireland to find freedom as an artist. We all experience these illuminating moments in our life; those instances of sudden clarity. However, it is rarely just ONE blinding gestalt moment; rather it is a Joycean sequence of small epiphanies leading to the final one. It’s something like the Telephone Game (see Telephone Game)  we played as children – only in reverse. In this game the first transmission is metaphorical and abstract; but with each successive exchange it becomes clearer and clearer, until, POW - we get the full message at the end. I experienced one of those epiphanies a few weeks ago, and it has inalterably changed my plans for retirement. It began on a holy day.
 

 

When I arrived at Mass on May 24th, I was surprised to discover that it was the Feast of the Ascension. Traditionally, this “religious holiday” occurred 40 days after Easter Sunday and always fell on a Thursday. When I mentioned this to my wife Kathy, she explained that because the observance had declined so much, the Bishop used the option of moving it to Sunday. As I sat reviewing the scripture selections (Acts 1: 1-11; Ephesians 4: 1-7, 11-17; and Mark 16: 15-20), I read that on this day Jesus commissioned the apostles to go and “proclaim the Good News to every creature”, and promised that they would soon receive the power of the Holy Spirit. Christ had spent the previous 40 days “speaking about the Kingdom of God”, which the disciples still confused with the restoration of the kingdom of Israel.
 

 

The sermon was a disappointment. Instead of exploring the heightened tensions and anxieties of this crossroads point of separation between Christ and his apostles, the priest went on a meandering monologue about the evangelical mission of the Church to convert other people. I lost interest and my gaze wandered from the faces and movements of the altar servers to the men and women sitting in the side pews. As I watched two restless brothers struggling over their mother’s sunglasses, I heard the priest say,

“Now some people say that the Kingdom of God is here…”

He kept talking, but I was caught in that moment on that one line. The throwaway sentence shook loose memories of an audio tape on which another priest described the Kingdom of God during a spiritual retreat. Father Anthony De Mello, SJ,  believed that “the good news” (the gospel) which Christ proclaimed was the revelation that the Kingdom of God WAS HERE, RIGHT NOW!
“Wake up, wake up!” De Mello imagined Jesus saying. “Open your eyes and ears to the wonder of God’s Kingdom before you. You are in it, if you have the eyes to see and the ears to hear”.
This might have been what Jesus had spent 40 days telling and showing his disciples – but they weren’t getting it. They still thought of the Kingdom as an empire, or a government, like Israel at the time of King David or King Solomon. Suddenly today’s readings made more sense. Christ was not leaving his disciples to test them, or to await reinforcements in the shape of the Holy Spirit; he was leaving because he had to. If he did not leave, they would never learn to SEE the Kingdom of God with their own eyes, and experience it for themselves. They had to grow up, experience enlightenment through the Holy Spirit, and see that the Kingdom of God was already here, in them and among them. More important, the gospel was asking us to identify with the disciples of the story. We were the ones who needed to wake up and see the spiritual Kingdom of God around us, and choose to live and be a part of it.
 

 

This epiphany was the kind of insight I experienced when I was struggling out of a long depression many years ago. In those dark days, I sought awareness and peace by jogging, exercising, attending mass, meditating, and journaling. Lately, I’d stopped many of these healthy practices. For the past five months I’d been plunged into an emotional maelstrom - obsessing, and then avoiding thoughts of the end of school, my retirement, my daughter’s wedding, and my trip to Morelia for my “sabbatical-retirement” (see Retirement Sabbatical). This gospel was like a wakeup call to open my eyes, pay attention, search for what was really important, and do something about it. Even though my retirement was fast approaching, the reality was still unreal. I’d invented the idea of a “retirement- sabbatical” three years ago as a target to aim for when retirement was an illusionary concept. It was no longer hazy, it was very real, and it was a WALL. My familiar and predictable world would suddenly end on June 30^th. As the priest concluded his sermon, I felt a greater affinity with the disciples who faced a more dramatic and catastrophic end to their world with the loss of the Messiah. Just as they would begin asking themselves, “What will we do? How can we go on without Him?” I was asking myself, what will I do after June 30^th? What will I do to replace the career and profession that has filled 35 years of my life? What new purpose or mission will direct my new life? The mission Christ gave his disciples was to spread the good news that the Kingdom of God Was Here. Could I share in this mission by learning how to see and participate in this spiritual kingdom? These questions were confusing me. Instead of tying myself up in mental knots over them, I decided to make a practical leap to some constructive actions.

 

As the priest prepared the altar for The Sacrifice of the Eucharist, I began to mentally plan my days after June 30, 2009. I slowly constructed a list of daily and weekly activities that would address mind, body, and spirit, and, hopefully, make me cognizant of the Kingdom of God:

 

 

1. Awaken at 6:45 A.M. to write Morning Pages
2. Go to 8:00 or 8:15 Mass at OLV or St. Bernadine’s.
3. Meditate after mass for 30 minutes.
4. Eat breakfast at home or coffee shop.
5. Write; Visit Ken or friends; house chores; adventures and explorations.
6. Read, read, read.
7. Jog, cycle, or walk.
8. Water the lawn.
9. Regular movie and discussion dates with retired friends.

I halted my “To Do” list as we rose for the Lord’s Prayer. I felt smugly confident that I had been receptive to the “epiphany moment” and molded it into practical applications. For the time being I was satisfied with my healthy Action Plan, and I shifted my attention to the remainder of mass. It wasn’t until evening that I experienced the real epiphany.
 

Instead of going to a movie that day, Kathy and I decided to use the Movies On Demand option of our cable service. We had previously tried to do this on Valentine’s Day. However, the cable company had been overwhelmed that day by the popular response to their $1.99 promotion. The movie we selected that day froze on the screen and we gave up the effort. As we reviewed the available cinema selections anew, I noticed that the movie was still listed.

“Hey” I exclaimed, “there’s Nights in Rodanthe! Why don’t we try that one again?”

“Are you sure?” Kathy asked back. “It’s a pretty sappy movie”.

“I won’t mind” I responded. “I expected a love story when we picked it on Valentine’s Day. I like the acting of Richard Gere and Diane Lane, and I’m curious to finally see what it’s about”.
 

 

We began watching the movie. As anticipated, it was an emotionally contrived love story between a tortured, widowed plastic surgeon, who was estranged from his son, and a beautiful mother of two children, separated from a husband who left her for another woman. Yet, despite its predictability (he’s the only patron at a seaside bed and breakfast which she is managing as a favor for a friend, just as a storm is about to strike and isolate them), the story had some powerful situations and emotional scenes. I even teared up a few times. However, once Gere and Lane fell in love, he left for South America to repair the relationship with his son, who was also a doctor. A string of letters maintained the lover’s connection, spliced with scenes of Lane ironing out her family difficulties and confessing to her best friend that this new love was the real thing. Even as the movie, accompanied by romantic music, built up to the climactic reunion between the two lovers, I detected the foreshadowing hints.

“Something bad is going to happen” I said to myself, making an effort not to blurt it out to Kathy, sitting nearby. I found myself willing the movie to end happily, and not try any realistic or tragic twists. Despite this mental effort, the dreaded scene occurred, and I silently shook my head thinking:

“Why would a man risk the vagaries of life and leave the woman he loves to seek answers to ephemeral questions about love, forgiveness, and redemption? Couldn’t these questions be answered at home?”
That's when I had my final epiphany.
 

 

Life is a risky and unpredictable existence; sad things happen all the time (See Beacons of Light)  Yet I was blissfully planning to travel and live away from Kathy, Prisa, Toñito, and the people I love, for three to four months in Morelia, Mexico (see Retirement Sabbatical)?  What was I thinking? I had once traveled this road before. In 1973, the year I first met Kathleen, my friend Greg and I traveled to Mexico City to attend Summer School classes at the National University of Mexico (Universidad Nacional de Mexico) for two months. It was the most miserable time of my life. I’ve reread my letters to Kathy during that period. None of the trials and tribulations I experienced in my life came close to the utter barrenness of my time away from the woman I fell in love with. At that time, I believed I was committed to a course of action that could not be side tracked because of an infatuation with a beautiful college graduate student I’d just met 3 months before. But now I was thinking of moving away from the center of my heart, the partner of our family, and the muse of my soul. I must have been crazy! Yeah, I think I was; it was a good crazy THREE YEARS AGO, but perhaps, not such a good idea NOW. The Meaning of Life, the Kingdom of God, or the Answer to Retirement was not to be found in Morelia. Seeking it there would be like imitating the travels of Larry Darrell, the hero in W. Somerset Maugham’s novel, The Razor’s Edge (“The sharp edge of a razor is difficult to pass over; thus the wise say the path to Salvation is hard” – The Katha-Upanishad). Darrell traveled the world seeking the “meaning of life”, only to find it temporarily in his love and caring for Sophie, an emotionally crippled and broken widow. The meaning of life is not found SOMEWHERE ELSE; one needs only but to turn around and open their eyes, because it is all around us. It finally occurred to me that these last three years must have been torture for Kathy, silently wondering and worrying if I was actually going through with my plan to live and study in Mexico for a semester. Yet she never argued, never nagged, and never whined about the foolishness of such a plan. She never challenged my dream or questioned the underlying logic to such a move: “Who or what was I fleeing from?” I know she prayed, and I think she believed me when I told her:

“Kathy, relax; a lot can happen in three years. Perhaps I’ll change my mind, or some other event will change it for me”.

She was as silent and prayerful as the original Kathleen Mavourneen of song. The Irish lass who was willing to allow her lover to emigrate to America in the 1800’s to find a better life. I decided Kathy’s prayers were answered on Ascension Sunday, with this epiphany a month before my retirement.
 

 

I told Kathy of this revelation the following day. I had toyed with the idea of waiting until our anniversary on August 2 to announce this change of plans; but despite the patience from 34 years of marriage and two children - I couldn’t keep back the good news. I don’t think I explained it to her as clinically and logically as I described it here. I doubt I mentioned Joyce or De Mello at all. I think I emphasized my bewilderment at having reached such a ridiculous decision against all the instincts of my heart. They finally won through.