​Mother fell and broke her left femur and she spent some time in a rehabilitation hospital in Midland, Ontario. I was up for a visit and sat down to eat dinner with her and some other residents in the dining room.


As we waited for delivery of the cart with the food trays I looked across the table and observed the many faces, some looking at me and some with a blank stare. Most were elderly and were there for a temporary stay after a traumatic injury took them away from their normal lives. There was a 97 year old man who served in the Canadian Army after the end of World War II who told stories of his time in France and Italy, helping locals adjust after Allied Forces had defeated the Nazis. He was a lively fellow who appreciated an ear to talk to since he didn’t have many visitors. Gladys was at our table, wearing a helmet, presumably after a head injury. She sat motionless most of the time and ate nothing during the meal. Neighbors to her left and right said that she seldom ate but had a feeding tube that was attended by the nursing staff. Michelle was to my right and was one of Mother’s roommates. She was my age and was one of the youngest in the ward. This is the second facility she had stayed in after having a massive stroke five months earlier. On a long road to recovery, she has a great attitude and a good appetite.


Mother’s dinner arrived. A Western Omelette with potatoes, a green vegetable, a small salad, and a cup of hot tea. She smiled. I’d brought a box lunch from home and I waited until everyone at the table got their tray before removing my roast beef sandwich. “Pat” took it all in. The food, the condiments, the tastes, the textures, the pleasure of the meal. There was no rush . . . no pressure to finish by a certain time. She had all the time that she needed. She had ordered several packets of margarine and she opened one . . . slowly. She dipped a plate knife into the packet and it came out with just a sliver of yellow on the end. She started applying it to the yellow of the egg in her omelette. Methodically, like someone drawing a smiley face on the head of a straight pin. It was perfect. I finished my sandwich.


After the yellow was glistening she started on the white areas of the omelette . . . ever so slowly. I pulled out another sandwich. Pat opened another margarine packet and started on the potatoes. They were cut in wedges, with the sharp side turned upwards. She knew that the melting sunshine wouldn’t pool atop these jagged heaps of carbohydrates and so she jabbed at them with the knife, successfully stabbing them with flavor. She smiled again and I finished my second sandwich.


Green beans and wedged potatoes are a match like no other. Mother knew this long before I ever did and she spread margarine packet number three over the short, cylindrical pieces in a haste. Melted margarine was spreading like hot lava now and the anticipation was swelling in her. It was meant to be. I had been eating a packet of sandwich crackers at this point and decided to put them down. I knew that I ate too fast at times and I was beginning to feel like H. G. Wells in his time machine, now a full day ahead in Mother’s meal.


The last packet of margarine lay in wait for the roll on her plate. I was glad that I was there to see it lathered in golden sunshine. It was awesome.


Salt & pepper packets are convenient and a blessing for those of us on the go. Not for Mother. She told me later that the arthritis in her fingers causes problems at the critical time that the contents are dumped on her food and she has resorted to emptying them instead in the palm of her hand so that she can place thumb and forefinger from her other hand over her palm and take several pinches of the spices and spread them evenly over the entire plate. First, the salt . . . and then the pepper. Logical, sequential, deliberate. I finished my crackers and started eating my large Gala apple.


I looked up and compared my progress with the others at our table. The veteran had finished the sandwich that had been served to him. He was just about done with his salad and he was out of water. “Waiter!” he called. He was obviously in a different place in his mind. Michelle was through with her meal and was eating her cookie. Gladys, well, she didn’t count.


As I started on my packet of cookies, Mother was about to top her salad with ranch dressing. It was just one packet and it didn’t take her long to complete the task. I was concentrating too hard on her movements. I knew it for a fact. My anticipation was growing almost as fast as hers at this point. I had to look away and I briefly pretended to be interested in the tennis game on the dining room television.


A volunteer began collecting trays at the tables. When she came to our table she looked at Mother’s plate and then looked at me. I just smiled. “No hurries,” she said.


I don’t know how many creams and sugars she put in her tea, if any. All I did was ask “Are you going to eat that food or just decorate it?” Pat was at her climax and just ignored me, grinning all the while.


A resident named Anne rolled up to our table, in her wheelchair. “Are you going to stay for the movie? It’s going to start in a few minutes, eh?” I was thinking that we were starring in a movie of our own, Mother & I. Anne was the social butterfly of the ward. In her nineties, she knew every resident and what they were in for. “We’ll probably still be here, Anne” was all I could say.


What happened next was astounding. Mother unwrapped her silverware from the paper napkin and began to contemplate which side of the omelette to start eating. With her fork engaged against the egg she started to wield the knife against one end but stopped and reconsidered. She then removed the fork and spun the plate around at an unbelievable speed. Remarkably, she cut off a piece at the other end, quite unpredictably, and she placed the cut piece in her mouth. Pure Heaven. I guess that you can surmise how the rest of it went.


2018

It was winter in South Texas and we sat in his El Camino while watching “Blazing Saddles” on the drive inn movie screen.  Mel Brooks movies were never my favorites but we were there to drink a six-pack and finish a pack of cigarettes so it really didn’t matter.  The actor’s lines were ridiculous, and we couldn’t help but laugh at the flick in the state we were in.  It had to be the beer.
 
Bobby was unlike most older brothers that I had heard of . . . we actually enjoyed each other’s company and he was non-judgmental about what I said or did in my 16-year old life.  He encouraged me to challenge myself and step outside of my box.  We were friends even though we were 8 years apart, and he often gave me a leg up on what was going to transpire in my world by explaining what had happened in his in similar situations.  
 
The El Camino’s muffler was missing and she made a loud noise when Bob fired her up after the movie had ended.  We heard a lot of yelling as we drove past the cars in our path and we left long entrails of carbon monoxide smoke as we exited the theatre.  We were enjoying the attention we were given.
 
Music was something that made a connection between us.  I can’t remember the tunes we were listening to on that specific night but I’m sure that it was loud as we made our way to Surfside Beach.  It was Bobby that introduced me to The Beatles way back when as well as classic rock in its early years.  He also influenced me in his faith, his solitude, and his martial arts appreciation.  I would laugh when he would try to imitate Bruce Lee’s kicks when he had the long boxing bag set up in his apartment.  I was very amazed at his art - he had a gift for sketching, painting, and sculpting.  Though I often had the imagination for art I could never come close to creating what he did with his own two hands.
 
As we drove down the moonlit beach I was thinking about THE OUTSIDERS, a book I had read at school.  Bob & I were almost like Darrell and “Ponyboy,” his younger brother in the story.  Although our parents were still alive, we had drama and dysfunction in our childhood and Bobby was the one who mentored me and looked out for me at times in our youth.  Even though we sometimes did things that we shouldn’t he knew where the line was drawn and he would never let me cross over it, even if he was way over on the other side.  I knew that he would make good choices as a parent if he ever got the chance.  After doing a couple of donuts in the sand, Bob found an exit on the east end and hurried through the soft ruts without getting stuck.  We were done for the night.
 
A year went by and Bob met the love of his life at the place I worked.  After they married, they let me stay with them when I was having problems at home.  I don’t know what I would have done or where I would have gone if it hadn’t been for Bob.  The drama in a young person’s life is ten times as intense as in any other age and he seemed to recognize himself in me.  Besides opening his door, he offered counsel in a non-condescending way and helped me to get on with my life.
 
People grow apart, especially when there are miles that separate them.  They also grow apart with ideas that grow bigger than family.  I’ll always have fond memories of my big brother and the adventures we had.  We survived childhood together.

RIP, Bob

​​Big boys and their toys have existed since man first had discretionary income and today is my first time to witness this, after travelling six hours in a car with my mother.  We have arrived to visit my grandparents in Ontario, Canada.  We parked the car, said our hellos, and are now walking to behold Grandpa’s boathouse.  The structure itself is unrecognizable and I’m finding myself more curious than impressed.  It’s a building that Grandpa Hank has created with his own hands but I’m unsure of its purpose.  As we make our way from the house to the lake the smell of fresh blacktop reminds me that this is his most recent project, and he is grinning from ear to ear as he tells Mother and I how he made it and what waits inside.
 
Grandpa Hank is a salesman for the Clark Equipment Company and travels across the country selling bulldozers, backhoes, and other heavy equipment to local contractors and large corporations alike.  He is well-suited for the job and makes a good salary in comparison to other members of Mother’s family.  I believe that he and Gram are rich.  This boathouse is like the bacon that early English settlers hung above the mantels of their fireplaces.  His and Gram’s lives are prospering, and his wealth is front and center.  He is someone who came from nothing and I admire him for his success.
 
The outside of the large shed is covered with siding that has recently been sprayed with creosote, giving it a dark rich color, and exuding a pungent odor that pairs with the asphalt.  A hornet’s nest hangs conspicuously above the platform that borders the west wall and the buzzing of its inhabitants promises a merciless attack to anyone who gets too close to the grey, round orb.  I have the feeling that this will not be my only encounter with their nation.  Our footsteps on the hardwood planks echo against the water below and ripples of water lap against the wide door that faces the center of Doe Lake.  As Hank unlocks the door, off the platform side, we enter the boathouse to examine machines that seem extravagant and impractical to our way of life.  The afternoon sunlight filters through the panes of the big door, allowing us to easily survey the watercrafts.  These include a two-man canoe, a V-Hull fishing boat, and a “Bazooo.”  The canoe interests me the most because my 9-year old frame would fit more snugly within it.  Grandpa had taken me fishing in the boat last summer when it was simply tied to the floating dock he once had.  He explained that he had recently acquired the 6-wheeled Bazooo and it had the ability to travel over dirt, asphalt, brush, and water.  “I’ll take you for a ride in it on the lake once you get settled,” he offered.  Unexpectedly, I turned to see the “Skidoo” in the corner.  Technically, it wasn’t a water craft but it did drive on ice.  Hank had let me drive the snowmobile last Easter and he now has it in storage until the white season returns.
 
Muskrats are in the water now and their agile movements remind me of Olympic synchronized swimming on the television set at home.  Huskier than a squirrel or a rat, the natural light gleams off of their wet coats as they surface, exposing fur that spikes in the direction of where they have been.  The bigger of the two presents his two hands, grabbing the fresh parsnip that Grandpa tosses in the water.  Grandpa’s voice echoes in the small space as he laughs at the creature.  “Just wait until I make pelts from the both of you,” he grumbled like a bridge troll.  A couple of muskrat traps were stacked behind him.
                                                                                                          
As he locks the building, I know the tour is over but I can also surmise that the adventures are sure to begin.  I will be spending a lot more time in this building that houses loud machines and ominous creatures.  Visions of freshwater fishing, snapping turtles, swimming, and water skiing flash before my eyes.  It’s going to be a great summer!

​The weather was warming up and Jack was canvassing the hills in his area of the world.  His mood was upbeat and he noticed that he wasn’t the only one out today.  Many were walking along the same path as he, some at a rapid pace.  Everyone seemed to have tunnel vision as they went about their way, each focusing on the task at hand and most didn’t seem to acknowledge one another as they crossed each other’s route on the wide open landscape.  “Isn’t it funny how self-centered we are?” he thought to himself.  As Jack drew closer to the new building site he saw more and more members of a large construction crew.  He was sent by his commanding officer to inspect the site and be on the watch out for any illegal aliens in the immediate vicinity.  The army’s purpose was simple . . . protect the citizens at all cost.  “Maybe we should build a wall to keep them out,” Jack mused.  As Jack was a little higher on the food chain than most of the crowd they would often nod as he passed by.  It was a sign of respect but it could be interpreted as fear as well.  Jack didn’t feel superior to any of them.  In fact, he often wondered if he could have been a builder in another life.  But, he knew that he was born to be a warrior . . . it was obvious in his physique and in the way he carried himself.
 
It was peacetime and the land prospered with economic growth and positive change.  Jack’s father had told him that it would be like this one day.  His dad had been a Field Captain and he had a lot of stories to tell Jack as he was growing up . . .  stories of beings not of this world, with remarkable strength. Most of the stories were rather graphic and some were unbelievable, but Jack always believed his father and others who had survived the war.  Most were gone now, including his father, and a new generation of soldiers remained to protect the homeland.  Jack’s battalion had just completed field exercises close by and measures were being taken to prepare for an unannounced invasion.   Jack and his unit were trained exclusively for mortal combat and they felt like they were ready for anything.  After inspecting several other building projects, Jack returned to his own dwelling and fell fast asleep.  It had been a long week.
 
Saturday morning came early and Jack was awakened by a vibration coming from deep within the ground.  It was unsettling and he had never felt anything like it before.  He quickly rose and ascended to the roof to get a lay of the land.  He had a hard time of keeping on his feet as the vibration got stronger and louder.  Once at the top he could see the source of the commotion right away.  It was a large machine that looked to be bigger than his command headquarters!  The machine was unlike any structure he’d ever seen before. It seemed to be destroying everything in its path and it was moving quickly. Others had followed Jack through the main entrance of the residency and he was pushed aside as they scurried frantically to get away.  Jack’s jaw dropped as he looked at the large machine and all of the chaos it had started.  Suddenly, his mind went back to a story his father had told him about such machines that had taken out most of his generation in the war.  The story had been incredulous when his father had told it and Jack had given him a patronizing smile at the time.  His father had said “Don’t be a disbeliever, son.  Your survival depends on your total belief in their existence!” 
 
Many of Jack’s comrades at arms lived in the same quarters as Jack and they now assembled to his vantage point.  The machine was closing in on their location at a fast pace and they took a united stance as it started to roll over their “hole in the wall” domicile.  The air pressure suddenly climbed as Jack looked up to see large revolving fan blades cut through the dirt and surrounding grass.  Jack, and many of his comrades were lifted to the top of the blade assembly and then thrown clear of the apparatus through an exit window on the side of the mechanism.  A bit stunned, Jack looked at the scene of his immediate surroundings. “Holy crap!” he thought.  The dirt dwelling that he once called home was obliterated!  Jack looked up to see something he had not noticed before . . . a creature that stood several stories tall, who was walking on two legs and holding on to the machine with two large, reaching appendages.  “This must be the alien that is driving the machine forward!” shouted Jack to himself.  Surprisingly, most of Jack’s companions were still intact.  Without a word they attacked the alien at his feet.  Working as one, the red-colored group stabbed, pinched, gnawed, bit, and chewed the flesh of the foreign beast.  All of their training had prepared them for this engagement and it seemed to be working.  The beast reached down and turned the machine off and all was quiet once again.  He then left their world as abruptly as he had arrived.
 
Jack knew that it was time to re-group and get ready for another assault but he couldn’t get everyone’s attention.  His unit was scattered and several worker ants were already beginning to rebuild the dwelling.  It was organized chaos.  The beast returned with a large container gripped in one limb and a can that read “Bud Light” in the other.  Jack saw his life flashing before his eyes.  The monster sprayed the whole area with a liquid poison that had an immediate effect on Jack’s hoard.  All at once, it seemed, the red army succumbed to the liquid and became lifeless.  With a loud “psssst’ noise, the man opened the Bud Light and swallowed.  “Damn ants!” he exclaimed.  With his last breath, Jack yelled “We’ll be back!”

​I am a sentimental person . . . not usually about things, but about people and my memories of them.  My collection of inanimate objects fill two cardboard boxes that I keep high in my closet and I pull them down from time to time to remind myself of their contents.  Some of the items in those boxes were put there in recent months, like a birthday card from the girls or a Frito-Lay keychain.  Other items have been in there for decades, like the watch that my Grandpa Hank wore daily during his adult years or the straight edge razor that my Great Grandpa Harold used many moons ago.  I took one of the boxes down recently and found something buried deep . . . it was a cassette music recording that my Uncle Jim made for me in 1976.  I remembered it but I couldn’t recall if I even owned a cassette player after all of these years.  After a few trips to the shed and the garage I found what I was looking for and sat down to listen to a familiar voice.  He had made the recording for me before our family moved to Texas the following year and I remember how he once mentored me on guitar playing.  It brought me back to a time when I thought I might be the next Glen Campbell or even a rock and roll star.  If only . . .
 
James Harvey Taverner was born in 1928 in Lewisham, Ontario, Canada to Harold and Pearl Taverner.  My maternal grandmother’s brother, he was one of nine children who spent much of his time learning how to play music in his youth.  His daughter, Judy once wrote a story of a Christmas that her Dad recollected often.  His father would sometimes hire out as a fishing and hunting guide to those unfamiliar with the area.  When the holidays came one lean year Pearl sent him with the horse and sleigh to the general store to pick up some candies for the kids to put in their stockings.  The owner of the store, who also doubled as the local postmaster, told Harold of a package that had arrived for him.  When he returned home, he and Pearl un-wrapped the package to find presents for all of their children . . . a gift from a man who had hired Harold to guide him earlier in the year.  What they thought would be a modest Christmas turned out to be one of the best ever.  Jim was given a toy tin fiddle.  It was the start of something that would change his life forever.  Judy’s story is entitled “There is a Santa Claus” and it can be found in her book, “Finding Joy,” by Judy Snoddon (available on Amazon).
 
Uncle Jim was self-taught on the guitar, banjo, and fiddle.  I can remember him tinkering with a steel guitar that he had once come to own when I was a boy.  His wife, Grace accompanied him on the piano at family and friend gatherings and they often played with others at local spots for a good time, and for charity.  They played mostly folk music that people could dance to and there was the occasional country & western song or church hymn.  My memory reminds me of the upbeat, fast tempo that would pry open a smile and a thankful heart.  Everyone around would be in good spirits during the music and the laughter and gaiety was infectious.  I remember a “cancer dance” that Angie and I attended while Uncle Jim and Aunt Grace were on the stage with their music mates back in the late 80’s.  It was my one and only time to see square dancing in person.  Angie and I watched and learned but were afraid to join in as I had barely learned the two-step by that point in our young lives.  It was fun watching everyone have a good time.
 
A fond memory I have of my Uncle Jim is the day that he taught me how to clean freshwater catfish.  He took me fishing more than once on Doe Lake in my early days but there is one fishing story that has stayed with me till now.  Next to Doe Lake on the outer limits of Gravenhurst, Ontario was once a conservation pond that was managed by the province.  It was in a stream by the pond that catfish would spawn each year as they traveled together.  I had walked beside the stream one summer day at the age of 8 or 10 and I witnessed hundreds of these “cats” moving at a rapid rate.  I had never seen anything like it and I ran to my grandfather’s house to share what I had seen.  He smiled at my enthusiasm and began loading some equipment in his trailer.  We headed out in the direction of the stream but not before he had made a call to Uncle Jim, who said that he would be on his way soon.  When we arrived at the source of my excitement Grandpa Hank unloaded three or four 5-gallon buckets and a fish net.  We took turns scooping up fish and there were sounds of splashing, slapping, and uncontrollable laughter.  We had a bounty on our hands, and in our buckets!
 
When we returned, Uncle Jim was waiting on us and he joined us in smiling at our good fortune.  It was then that he and Grandpa both looked at each other and then back at me.  Uncle Jim asked me “Are you the one who wished for all of these fish?”  “I sure am!” I replied.  “Well, be careful what you wish for, young man,” he said.  “Now, you have to clean them!”  I wasn’t too sure about this . . . our fishing was over and I thought it was time to go and play.  Grandpa set up a cleaning table near the sink in his garage and Uncle Jim schooled me on how to skin & fillet the slimy, slippery creatures.  The three of us were there until well after dark and we filled a short freezer with fish wrapped in newspaper.  It was work but I enjoyed eating them over the next several weeks.  Uncle Jim and I remarked about that adventure many times over the following years.
​
Jim taught me something about work ethic as well.  He worked at “Canadian Tire” for many years and became as much a fixture as the store that he worked in.  People associated him with the service that his company provided to the community and he was asked for by name by many of the patrons.  I would spend the summers with my grandparents and “Gram” would take me by the store soon after my arrival each year to visit her brother.  We would also visit the IGA in town to see Aunt Grace.  Both were always happy to see me and anxious to hear what I had been up to since my last visit from the states.  Soon before moving to Texas Gram let me walk into Canadian Tire on my own and surprise my uncle.  He was working at the parts desk and had just finished with a customer.  He had a sour look on his face and looked like he was having the worst day ever.  I had never seen him like this and wondered what it was about his job that made him feel the way he looked.  He glanced my way as I approached the desk and his scowl melted away and was replaced by the beaming smile that I remembered.  That’s when I realized that he had made it all look so easy . . . when he knew I was watching.  It taught me something about managing the perception of others, from the frontline employee to the boss in charge.  Jim retired from the company and I have often thought about his tenure as the years stacked up in my own job.  I never dreamed that I would stay with one company for such a long time but here I am, thirty years later, working at something that I started in my twenties. 
 
I’ve heard it said that music is the window to the soul.  It can alter your mood, transport you to another time, or motivate you beyond what you would normally accomplish.  Music appreciation in its simplest form is the way it makes me feel and Uncle Jim started me on a journey that has made me appreciate many genres, from folk and country music to rock and roll, jazz, and classical pieces.  Musicality skipped a couple of generations and I never mastered the guitar, even after a couple years of lessons, but I still become absorbed by watching and listening to musicians do their thing.  I’ve learned that melodies and lyrics can speak something unique to me and something totally different to someone else.  Many songs take us back to the ones we have loved or places we have been.  I once decided to attend the Woody Guthrie Folk Festival in Okemah, Oklahoma.  I had just read Bob Dylan’s autobiography which went into detail about his hero, the one who had written and performed songs during the post-depression years of the 30’s and 40’s.  The annual festival commemorates Woody Guthrie’s life as well as folk music itself and I took my brother, Terry to see what it was all about.  Their music tells a story and the audience becomes a part of it.  Uncle Jim probably had nothing in common with Guthrie other than taking on the part of storyteller as he strummed and plucked his way through a song.  He held your attention for 3-5 minutes and would then start again.  His smile reminded me that everything would be okay and his attention to my young life made me feel that I was valued and a part of the whole.  Everyone deserves an Uncle Jim in their lives and I’m grateful for his in mine.

​I just recently returned from a trip to visit my mother in Collingwood, Ontario, Canada. I am a middle-aged man, just a few years from retirement, and Mother is 23 years older than me. She has been retired for many years now and lives simply in a small one-bedroom efficiency apartment near Wasaga Beach, one of the many beaches on Georgian Bay, sometimes called “The Sixth Great Lake.” Wasaga Beach was a place to hang out during the days of her youth and although she hasn’t been there for many, many years, there is a peace in knowing that she doesn’t live far from a place where many of her fond memories were made. They are memories from a life before her adult adventures began and before the burden of responsibility came to rest on her shoulders. As I made the 12-hour trek home I was alone in my thoughts and explored my own memories of the woman who was my first love.

“Michael! Come downstairs and finish those letters!” It was a few days after Christmas in my young life and I was enjoying the presents that I had just received. I always obtained gifts from my maternal grandparents, and there were several aunts and uncles that sent me cash in the mail each year. I received cards made out to “Master Michael Shoemaker” with an American five dollar bill inside. I would sometimes collect as much as $30 during the holidays from relatives from the north and I would spend what seemed like an eternity writing thank you notes to all of them. “Why do I have to write them all back, Mom?” I would ask. “It’s because you should thank people for sending you a gift and what better way is there than to write a letter? Besides, your grandma and your aunts always enjoy reading your letters!” It was a chore, writing those letters on lined paper. It felt much like homework and I would often sit for hours at the table with nothing much written on the page. It was my first experience with “writer’s block,” and Mother would walk close by every half hour to inspect my progress. “Keep at it . . . the words will come . . . and you will make your Aunt Grace and your Aunt Eileen happy with your thanks and thoughtful words.” Ugh.

As the years went by I got better at writing those letters. I could punch them out fairly quickly and she would spend less time editing them before mailing them out. She might suggest writing about the latest weather or describing the last Boy Scout merit badge that I had earned. We were on to other things now it seemed. Domestic jobs were on the agenda in my adolescence: Laundry, ironing, cooking, baking, & some cleaning took the place of writing. Mother taught me how to read a recipe card and make simple dishes like spaghetti and macaroni and cheese. I learned how to fry an egg at an early age and she would say “You’re ahead of your great grandpa! He never learned how to cook for himself and he would sit in the kitchen and wait for my grandmother to serve him every meal! That’s not going to happen with you!” My favorite domestic skill was baking as I always had a fondness for cookies (and still do to this day). Peanut butter cookies, oatmeal cookies, and Nestle Toll House cookies were favorites when we baked and the best part was eating them. Though I didn’t do a lot of laundry she taught me how to use both the washing machine and the dryer and I could also figure out the ones at the laundromat during the times that our machines were not working. She would always make me iron my Boy Scout uniform and I eventually graduated to cooking the family dinner once a month. I know all of these teachings as basic life lessons now and I still remember the way Mother drilled them into me, for my survival in the real world.

Little League in my day was nothing like it is today. We lived in a small town and we had just three teams each summer. We would play one team this week and the other team next week and then we would start again. I played catcher and third base but spent most of my time pitching. I was one of the biggest players in our bunch and I found baseball to be within my athletic abilities. I was never a jock but I found the game to be second nature to me. It was paired with strategic thinking, kind of like chess, and I enjoyed the challenge. I never played ball in junior high and I tried out for high school ball just once. The good thing is that I was never pressured by my parents to play and I continued to have a love for the game on my own terms. I have seen many kids who were “worn out” on sports before they ever reached adulthood. Although one can find a lesson in just about everything in life, I don’t see much to learn about quitting.

I remember when I was ten years old I told my mother that I wanted a job. Not just any job, but a job making money. She often put me “in charge” of my little sister and she would sometimes pay me a stipend for watching her over the course of an afternoon while she did housework. I also made a few bucks working with my father on occasion. He was an electrician and I would install switch covers in the many houses and apartments that he would wire on summer days. Still, there was a desire in me to work for someone else. When I was eleven, she found an ad in the paper that read “Wanted: Young man needed to help elderly man with outside chores.” It read something like that. She took me to meet an Old Italian man on the other side of town. He was eating a meal at home that his wife had made him and he asked me to sit down with him. As he and my mother agreed on a rate of pay the older woman made me a plate of pasta and I ate it. Mother left me with the man and he started me on lawn maintenance. Mom picked me up a couple of hours later and I came home with a little bit of money in my pocket. The old man asked for me a couple more times and I learned how to mop floors at the local Catholic School. He once put a paint brush in my hand and left me to hand-brush aluminum paint on a wire fence that surrounded the school. I can’t remember what he paid me and I can’t even remember his name but he taught me an early lesson of “honest money for honest work.” Mother later helped me get a job as a paperboy, delivering the local paper after school. After that, she helped me to get a job as a dishwasher at a nearby café. She was teaching me how to look after myself and it was paying dividends.

Mother was usually good-natured at home. Even though she had taken on the responsibility of helping to raise step children, she still had the ability to whistle while she did housework or hum a tune in her day-to-day activities. She managed to enjoy what she was doing without letting it suck the air out of her passion. One of her favorite quotes at the time was “A thing of beauty is a joy forever,” and she appreciated things in that way, whether it was a material object or the experience of eating a delightful piece of apple pie. She had a way of letting small things impact the bigger things in life. I remember having a picnic with her one afternoon after having a doctor appointment. The enjoyment of the picnic overshadowed the experience with the doctor and my good mood continued into the evening. She helped me in this way to learn early on the benefits of meditation. Meditation is simply focusing on the present and pushing away the thoughts of the past and future. You can see it every evening on the front porches across America . . . old men and women sitting in their rockers and enjoying the sight of people passing by. Mother learned this early in her own life when she would find a place to curl up and read a book. It’s a lesson that has taken me almost a full lifetime to appreciate.

We had an intramural softball competition at work a few years ago. Each zone business team became a softball team and practiced a couple of times before having a competition one fall day. I was the fattest, slowest player on our squad and I was a bit nervous about playing first base. Although I had never played the position I knew the role and was aware that I would be thrown many balls by the infielders. I thought back to my youth and even as a parent of girls’ softball as I thought about what the next play should be after the pitch was thrown, whether it was a throw to first or a forced run to third. These are often the thoughts of day-to-day life. What course do I take after finishing Algebra? Trigonometry or Physics? What jobs will I need to learn before getting the job that I really want? Mother didn’t teach me a thing about baseball but she helped me get over the hump and on to the next thing whenever she could. By the way, not only did I survive the softball competition . . . I was given the game ball and voted MVP for our team. We didn’t win the day but we became a stronger unit and I learned that I could be an asset no matter how fat my butt is.

Like Mother, I have a love for movies. Thinking back, I have enjoyed and learned from a host of baseball movies: “The Natural,” with Robert Redford; “Field of Dreams,” with Kevin Costner; “The Bad News Bears,” with Walter Matthau; “A League of Their Own;” “The Sandlot,” and the list goes on and on. Each story is about overcoming obstacles and working with others to find a common destiny. Our childhoods are like that, too. Our brothers and sisters become our heroes because of the sacrifices they make to help us survive childhood together and we often reflect in remembering some of the stupid things we have done to make us who we are today. Mother is an only child. Although she didn’t experience brothers and sisters she helped me to realize the importance of those relationships during and after our childhoods and the responsibility of nurturing those relationships much later in life.

My week in Canada brought me back to the many foods we used to eat as a family. There were some foods that I hadn’t thought about in many years: Thuringer, Dutch Lettuce, Shepherd’s Pie, Goulash, butter tarts, fruitcake, macaroni salad, and various casserole dishes. Some of these foods were from my mom’s side of the family and some were dishes that she learned to make from my dad’s side. One recipe that I have continued with my own family is chili with kidney beans. Although I add more spice to the pot when I make it my taste buds still trigger a memory when I whip it up. There is nothing like a big pot of Mother’s Chili on a winter day.

Mom is a reader and she owned DESU BOOKS for many years. Her used book store was probably her best career, meaning it was a job that gave her much purpose while she enjoyed what she did at the same time. She read for pleasure but she also read to learn, as she still does. Although she has tried to teach me to have joy in reading it doesn’t have the effect that it has on her. It might be because of an experience that I had early on in life. I was in second grade and she had bought me a hardcover book called “How Babies Are Made.” There was a practical need in buying me the book as she wanted to teach me about the birds and the bees in small bite-size chunks. I remember bringing the book to “Show and Tell” one day in Miss Tracy’s class. The new book had a book cover dressed in purple and grey colors and I brought it to Miss Tracy at the beginning of class in hopes that she would let me read it out loud to the class in the afternoon. The book was complete with cartoon pictures of different animals mating, in good taste of course, with humans on the last page. Miss Tracy told me that she would look the book over and when Show and Tell started later that day she told the class that Michael would be reading a book on another day. She later told me to find another book that would be more entertaining to the class. It’s a good thing that censorship exists in some situations. I can just imagine me reading that book like Alfalfa from the “The Little Rascals.” Of course, it was never Mother’s intention for me to take the book to school. Funny.

With reading comes learning and Mother has had a definite influence in my education, my politics, and my overall thoughts on living an honest, clean life. Mom is a child of the 40’s and 50’s and she raised a family in the 60’s and 70’s. The sixties was a time of violence, rioting, demonstrations and the hippie movement. She identified with a call for peace, a duty to protect the environment, and a government to answer the call for help from unprotected citizens. She says that she was always a feminist and she taught me from an early age to respect women and to hold them up as equals to men in personal and professional circles. Most importantly, Mother taught me to be my own person and to be confident in my beliefs. My wife, Angie tells me that one of my best qualities, the one thing that attracted her to me the most, is being confident and self-assured. I told her that it’s something that I learned from Mother.

I stayed with my sister, Shannon and her husband, Vince during my stay this last week. I asked them to “stream” game 6 and 7 of the World Series for me. The 2017 series took the Houston Astros and the Los Angeles Dodgers to game 7 and both teams played very well. The last time the Astros won the series was “never” and it was exciting for the city of Houston to have a big win after Hurricane Harvey took a lot from Texas residents in August of this year. November 3rd was named “Astros Day” and a local parade was put on in the downtown streets of Houston. Baseball came alive for me again this year and it was something that Angie and I enjoyed watching together.

I struggled with trying to tell a story about my mother. I even discussed story ideas with Angie and she made me realize that one of Mom’s best stories is me and the person that I have become. It’s not one or two stories that have made me complete – it’s the many life lessons that she taught me over the years from map-reading to preparing my own taxes. She helped me to realize that parenting is not about “friending” your children . . . it’s about getting them ready to live life on their own. Baseball is a passion that I acquired while becoming independent and it has had its own rewards. She continues to drive me to learn more about history and the reasons behind what we do. I have found that I am a lot like her. Oh, dear!

Note: I wrote a poem to Mother many years ago and have included it below. I think it pairs with this story . . .

​

YES, MOTHER

Looking back to memories bright,
I remember she’d teach me wrong from right.
“Clean your plate. There are others who have none.”
“Do your homework, and let me know when you’re done.”
“Look at me when I’m talking to you.”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“Save your money for a rainy day.”
“It’s beautiful outside, so go out and play.”
“Let me show you how to clean and cook.”
“If you’re really bored, you can read a good book.”
“Don’t you know that I was young once, too?”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“Take some time to read this book, son.
I think it’s time you know where they come from.”
“Girls are spice and everything nice.”
“If you’re smart, you’ll take my advice.”
“You don’t have to do as others do.”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“My grandfather gave us all we would need.
When spring rolled around he would plant seed.
He shot game and lived off the land.
He wasn’t afraid to make a stand.
You could learn a few things from him, too.”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“I used to walk a mile to school.
It won’t hurt you to walk a little, too.”
“Do your chores and be nice to your sister.”
“Address adults as Misses or Mister.”
“Do you know that I love you?”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“Why do you want to be in a rock and roll band?”
“Be a leader. Lend a helping hand.”
“How old is she? What is her name?
Do you care for her deeply? Does she feel the same?”
“Where have you been? I was worried about you!”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“How many hours? How much does it pay?
Think of your future. In school you should stay.”
“Do you have food? You’ve lost a lot of weight.”
“Be on time. You shouldn’t be late.”
“Did you get the letter that I sent you?”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“You’re too young to get married. Won’t you wait till later?
Yes, I think she’s nice. No, I don’t hate her.”
“You need a good job. Where will you live?”
“How much do you need? How much can I give?”
“Isn’t life great when love is new?”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“I’m going to be a grandma?!! You must be joking!”
“How’s the job going? Are you still smoking?”
“We’re all fine. How is she?
I was foolish to think she’d replace me.
Tell her that I’m thinking of her, too.”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“You sound funny. Are they all right?
How long was she in labor? Was it a long night?
She’ll be okay. She just needs time to heal.
You’ll be a good father. When was your last meal?
Give her my love, and to the baby, too.”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“Tell her not to fuss. I won’t be a bother.
I remember a few things. You were once a toddler.
The living room is fine. You sleep in your own room.
I’ll get her some groceries. Where does she keep her broom?
It was nice seeing you. I’ll miss you, too.
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“They’re growing like weeds.
I wish you weren’t so far away.”
“Pay attention to your wife . . .
A good husband doesn’t stray.”
“Call me if you need someone to talk to.”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“Get you some stocks, bonds, or an IRA.
If you stuff it under the mattress, that’ll be okay.
You must think of their future . . . and yours and hers, too.
It’ll take planning to see it all through.
Don’t worry about me, son. I’ve planned some, too.”
Yes, Mother . . . I hear you.

“Are you happy, boy? It’s important that you are.
There’s more to life than a career or a new car.”
“I’m proud of you and of who you’ve become.
You’re all that I dreamed of and even more, son.
But tell me the truth. Did I ever get through?
Did you ever listen when I was talking to you?”

Yes, Mother . . . I listened. I even took your advice.
In many of my choices, I didn’t have to think twice.
I haven’t always been as good as I could be.
There were times that I was glad you weren’t there to see.
Of one thing I’m certain . . . you passed a lot on.
You taught me to be caring, happy, and strong.
Your thoughts are with me in all that I do.
Yes, Mother . . . I heard you.

​It was Sunday morning and I was awakened by the sound of purposeful movement . . . people walking quickly on the floor of the second level of the old house, some of them descending the staircase to unknown rooms below. There were parental orders being given followed by dissention in the ranks of the children who didn’t agree with the orders. It was almost like the sounds of my own home except this was Sunday, a day of rest, and my own family would be still and quiet at this time. It took me a minute to remember where I was and a few minutes more to realize what the hustle and bustle was all about. David must have been part of the formation downstairs because he was no longer in his bed. We were about the same age and I had spent the night with him and his family. He had a sister who also had a friend over and David’s mom had spent much of the evening before doting on the four of us and “popping in” at each of the two bedrooms to make sure we were behaving ourselves and not staying up too late. I had learned to recognize the sound of her walk on the old wood floors and I heard it again as she walked up to the door outside David’s room. She popped in again and said, “Time to get up, Michael! We’re going to church!” Then, immediately, she was gone again.

“Church?” I asked myself. I dressed quickly as I contemplated what that meant. “Would Mom and Dad approve of me going?” “I don’t have church clothes to wear!” More importantly, “I’ve never been to church! Don’t I have to be registered or something?” I was in a bit of a panic and I quickly joined the ranks of purposeful walkers as I went in search of David’s mother. “Surely, we can negotiate this,” I thought. I found her in the kitchen. “Mrs. DeJohn, can I call my mother so that she can come and pick me up?” David’s mother replied “There’s no need. If we’re going to be on time for church we had better be leaving in a few minutes.” I responded with several pleas to get out of going. “I can wait in your driveway until she gets here!” “I can walk home!” “I don’t have church clothes!” And, finally, “I’ve never been to church before!” Her demeanor suddenly changed. “You haven’t? Well, dear, there’s nothing to fear. I’ll make sure that no harm comes to you,” she chuckled.

We sat near the front of St. John’s Catholic Church. It was beautiful inside and my eyes took it all in: wood pews, stained glass windows, marvelously-crafted statues, a loft at the back of the church, and a giant cross at the front. Was that Jesus on the cross? I saw friends from school start to arrive with their families. I saw our next-door neighbors file in one by one. “So, this is where they go every Sunday!” I thought to myself. Organ music started playing and everyone stood up. Singing followed and I looked up to the loft to see a small choir sing the first of many assigned hymns. A procession that started in the back made its way to the front and David’s mom opened the “missalette,” a booklet that she grabbed from a nook in front of us. She had me stand beside her and she meant to explain the mass from start to finish. She used words to explain the flow of what we were participating in. When talking was not appropriate she pointed to the paperback so that I could read what was happening or what prayer was being recited. It was a lot to take in but I was eager to learn more. There was a lot of standing, sitting, and kneeling and it was almost like an exercise class, I thought. Near the end, we all stood in line for “The Eucharist,” which led me to ask more questions. Mrs. DeJohn explained that I couldn’t take communion that day but I still felt like a part of the whole. It was my first religious experience.

I was a paperboy in the small town that I was raised in. I delivered the “The Times Union,” a newspaper out of Rochester and it took me just over an hour each evening to deliver the daily paper to thirty or so customers on the south side of town. It was Friday and I was knocking on doors to make my weekly collection. It was wintertime and there was too much snow and ice to ride my bike, so I walked the route in snow boots and many layers of clothing. The subscription price for six days of the Times Union was ninety cents in 1974 and I kept dimes in the pocket of my jeans because most people came to the door with a dollar bill and most wanted change, especially the older customers. Getting a ten cent tip from one of the widows on my route was rare, unless it was Christmas week. A week’s income for me at twelve years of age was somewhere between $5.50 and $7.00 but I could make over $20 on Christmas week if I tied the paper with red ribbon on collection day. I learned that “hanging out” with some of the older people to hear a story or two could mean an extra dime in my pocket. Friday evenings could be long.

I knocked on the door of Mrs. Julia Cordon, an older woman on Meadow Street. I didn’t know a lot about her but she would usually make some pleasant small talk on Fridays. She always expected to get a dime back from me. “Is it Friday already? Come on in, young man!” she exclaimed. It was the first time she had asked me inside. “It is so cold out there! You must be freezing!” she went on. “I’m used to it,” I replied. She went to another room to retrieve her purse and I took the time to look at the contents of her living room. Like most houses in Clyde, New York hers was an older home but it was well-furnished, clean, and tidy. She quickly returned to where I stood with my boots and melting snow on her front rug. “I saw you in church on Sunday! Who were you there with?” she asked. I told her about my stay-over at David’s house the prior weekend and then I asked her where she had been sitting. “I play the organ at St. John’s. I was in the loft with the choir.” Just then, I noticed an organ in the corner of her living room. “Yes, that’s where I practice most of the time,” she said. “What is your name?” she asked. “You have delivered my paper for several months and we haven’t had a chance to get to know each other.” Mrs. Cordon and I talked for several minutes and I left after giving her change. Many conversations followed in the months ahead and I learned that she was a widow who lived alone and her life was playing the organ and enjoying her grandchildren. As I yearned for more knowledge I would sometimes walk to mass on my own and I remember Mrs. Cordon picking me up in her Dodge sedan a couple of times when I was walking. She would often share the weekly bulletin with me and, after I had moved away, would mail the weekly bulletin to me so that I could stay up-to-date with the parishioners and events of St. John’s. Many years later, Julia and I continued to mail Christmas cards to each other. Other than my mother and grandmother, she was the first woman I remember who took an active interest in my future and how I lived it. She was an angel.
​
My family moved to south Texas in the late seventies and it was a confusing time for me. I was fifteen, we were in a different state, a different climate, a different culture, and my parents were divorcing. Everything I knew was changing and I had a need to belong to something bigger than myself. I remember being in Tenth grade English class one day and a debate ensued between two classmates of mine: George McGuire and Tommy Meaders. It was a friendly debate between two friends and it had to do with the story of creation. I remember that the debate sparked an interest in me and I let George and Tommy know it. Friendships followed and I attended the First Baptist Church of Freeport on a couple of occasions. It was their church and I was invited to youth bible studies a couple of times. I found the Baptists to be different from the Catholics. Baptists seemed to be more vocal as a group, and as individuals. Catholics were more reverent in their space, and their faith seemed closer to the vest. Regardless, the belief was basically the same and I continued to soak it in.

After high school I attended junior college and Tommy and I would often see each other in the snack bar in the mornings. His field of study was engineering and mine was journalism and although we didn’t have classes together, we would often touch base over a cup of coffee. It was Tommy who got me to join the Baptist Student Union. We had weekly bible studies and I remember the day that the group gave me my own study bible. It was the King James Version, wrapped in burgundy-colored pleather, and it had my name stenciled on the cover in gold-colored font. I still have it somewhere and there are post-it notes on various pages throughout the text, a testament to the many hours of studying and attempts to learn all that I read. At this point, Christianity was in my head and not yet in my heart. I found it hard to relate to the many things that I read and I wasn’t yet ready to accept everything that people told me. I felt like many of the people I talked to felt the same way but weren’t willing to bring their feelings forward. After a time, I quit attending bible studies. I remained friends with Tommy but we didn’t talk a lot about religion anymore. He was my best man when I married a couple of years later. I met a couple of other people at college who had an influence on me. There was Michael, a pastor of a local “Assembly of God” church. He once invited me to one of his services. It was the first and last time that I witnessed “talking in tongues.” It was a little weird for me but I liked the message that Michael continued to give me in our random lunchtime conversations. There was also Barbara, the wife of a Texas Department of Corrections factory superintendent. She was Baptist and I often played the Devil’s advocate in our talks. I once asked her “What if you’re wrong about life after death?” Her answer stuck with me. She said “If I’m wrong, at least I’ll go to my death knowing that I lived my life with purpose and with a belief that I stayed true to.” I knew that I wanted what she had.

I looked up faith in the dictionary. It reads “A strong belief in God or in the doctrines of a religion, based on spiritual apprehension rather than proof.” Up to this point in my life, I had something pulling me in the Christian faith. The people I have written about are some of the people who were a part of that magnetic attraction, however, it was still only in my head and I was looking for scientific proof of a God that existed and I wasn’t finding it. Another definition of faith is “Complete trust or confidence in someone or something.” Looking back, I guess the reason that I couldn’t summon up faith for the first definition is because I had never experienced the faith of the second definition. The only faith I had was what I had in myself. I knew that I could depend on my own morals, my own loyalty, in self-truths. I didn’t have faith in anyone else. Not really. It would be a long time before I came to understand.

Angie told me when we became engaged that we would have to marry in the Catholic Church. There was no other way, and we would have to get married at St. Henry’s, the family church in Freeport. We made an appointment to see the priest who was from Central America. He spoke several languages, including English. We met in his office and he asked us several questions as he dragged on a cigarette at his desk. He explained that he could marry us in the church but only if we promised to raise our children as Catholics. We agreed and we had a Catholic wedding the following year. I remember it being a low-budget event and Father didn’t turn the air conditioning on until about thirty minutes before it started. He led the Mass in Latin and Spanish and I took my cues from Angie at the critical moments. I laugh about it now but at the time I wasn’t sure what I was getting into. I did learn that the Catholic faith was a big part of the family’s traditions and Hispanic culture. We were sure to get both of our daughters baptized.

We were a little slow at getting our girls involved in church. In fact, both of our girls attended communion classes at the same time and they’re five years apart from each other. Poor Stefanie . . . she was the oldest (and tallest) kid in the communion class picture and she teases us about it to this day. I remember the day that they both received their first communion. They were both dressed in white and Lori walked up to me afterwards and said “Guess what, Daddy? I received first communion today!” I told her “I know, baby! We’re so proud of you!” Then she asked “Daddy, when are you going to receive first communion?” Suddenly, I felt like she had a better understanding of faith than I did! It was a call to action for me.

My brother-in-law, Charlie Minter was eleven years younger than me. Angie and I would take him to do things when we were teenagers and even when we were newly married. Charlie was always curious and independent and he grew into an adult who often questioned the norm. He accepted Christ as his personal savior at a young age and he had strong convictions about his faith. We would often debate about religion and what made our respectful arguments memorable for me was the way he would find proof to back up his arguments. Sometimes he would find many resources on the internet to prove a point and other times he would simply point to a verse or chapter in the bible. He was very compelling. He once showed me a video that proved some events as they were told in the Old Testament and also disproved truths that many atheists and agnostics have stated for years. It is not my intent to make any of these arguments known in this writing. I just want to underline the fact that Charlie was the first one to prove to me that Jesus Christ was here as the Son of God. I’ll never forget that.

Like most families, we had things happen in ours that took their toll on my patience, my small amount of wisdom, and my spirituality. I was at a point that I needed guidance from a higher power. Angie and I were going through the mail one day and we found a newsletter from our local church that announced the “Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults” or RCIA. It was a meeting at the church for anyone interested in joining the faith, joining the church, or simply “catching up” with getting their sacraments. I told Angie that I wanted to go and we went as a couple for one night a week for about a month. It was a time to learn about the Catholic faith and, in older times, a time for the church to scrutinize those wanting to convert to Catholicism. There was much to learn and many questions to ask. I learned the answers to why Catholics stand, sit, and kneel so much and to so many other questions. After several months, I was still a sponge, soaking up more and more information. But, it was still just in my head and not in my heart, until “Holy Week,” the week leading up to Easter Sunday in 2002. On the Easter vigil I was to be baptized, along with two other adults. Then, there would be several of us who would receive first communion and be confirmed in the faith. It was what our group was leading up to after all of these months but I wasn’t 100% convinced. There was something missing and I couldn’t put my finger on it. On Holy Thursday, we learned about “the washing of the feet” and how Jesus humbled himself by washing the feet of his disciples. I left church that evening with closeness to Him that I hadn’t felt before. It was as if I knew Jesus personally and he seemed to have left a mark on me. On Good Friday, the church had a service at 3:00 pm, the same time as his death on the cross all those years ago. The service is called “Veneration of the Cross,” and parishioners come to the alter to pay homage to the cross and Jesus’ sacrifice. Some people kiss the cross. Some simply touch it. Others stand or kneel before it and genuflect. I kissed the cross when it was my turn and then I sat down in my pew. It was then that the Holy Spirit wrapped itself around me. I cried uncontrollably for several minutes. My faith was born and I realized that proof of God no longer mattered. He was now in my heart and there was nothing that could take Him away. I was baptized at the vigil the following night and it was an experience that I’ll take with me for the rest of my life. I would like to thank some of the people that had a hand in my conversion: Fr. Vince Dulock, Cheryl Scott, Chip Stone, and Marianne Vrazel, and of course, Angela Lopez Shoemaker, my wife. I remember Fr. Vince saying “We use oil during baptism because oil will even penetrate rock.” I guess that he was talking to me.

I am still on a spiritual journey and I will be learning and experiencing new things for the rest of my life. For me, faith and spirituality is rooted in the Catholic Church for that is where I truly found God. I have friends and family that believe in teachings other than what Catholic Christians believe in. I respect that and believe that religion should not be thrust upon others. I don’t consider myself an evangelist but if the way I live can affect what others believe in I am there to serve and help in the conversion of anyone who seeks life as a Christian. If the way I live does not affect people in that way then may they find peace and spirituality in their own way and in their own time. To me, peace is about co-existing with all people and believing in the greater good. It’s also about respecting the beliefs of others, even if it’s not what you believe in yourself.

In August of 2010 I attended the thirty-year reunion of the graduating class of Clyde-Savannah Central High School in Clyde, New York. I went with my cousin, Becky, who still lived in the town that we grew up in. Although neither one of us actually graduated from the school we both have life-long friends that we met there and it was a great time for both of us. I woke up on the morning after the reunion and attended mass at St. John’s. It had been approximately 36 years since I had first attended mass there and it was a humbling experience. I sat at the end of a pew in the back and watched all of those people come and go as I did in my youth. Though I recognized only a few people it felt like going home in a way. I received communion and said a prayer and glanced up into the loft before I left. Julia had long since passed away but I felt as if I saw her up there, playing the organ. In my mind’s eye, she smiled at me and I smiled back.

​I was getting ready to play golf with a couple of friends the other day.  I dragged my golf bag from underneath a stockpile of fold-up lawn chairs in the garage and then spent several minutes wiping cobwebs off of the many irons at the very top of the bag.  I took some more time pulling out clubs that I hardly ever use, which included a junior-sized putter that I had bought for my granddaughter many years before, and a tool that I once used to retrieve lost balls from the water’s edge in the many water hazards of games past.  I was intent on making the bag as light as possible.  If I’ve learned anything in life it’s to “lighten the load” whenever possible so that I can spend my energy on what matters.  I was looking forward to having a fun round of golf.
 
After going over a mental list of things to pack for our game, I took off at a reasonable time so that I could arrive early and not feel rushed.  I have never taken the game very seriously and live only to make a few worthwhile shots while I’m there.  However, rushing leads to stress and stress is not a good factor when you’re down 10 or more strokes to your golf buddies.  It didn’t matter to me who would win the round . . . I just wanted to feel as if I was in the same league as these guys, if only for one game.  They were both retired and spent much of their time devoted to the craziness of golf and I didn’t want to look like a total idiot.  I should probably not have set my expectations so high.
 
When I arrived, both Ronnie and Roger were already at the golf course.  One had commandeered a cart and had asked the other to join him.  They had might as well be wearing “matching socks” and I knew that it was them against me.  No beer for the first nine holes . . . I would need a lot of water to keep my brain hydrated for this competition.  I hadn’t played but just a couple of times in the last few months but I was ready to tee off.  The first hole was a Par 4 and my two buddies took a whack from the tee box.  Both were wet and mine hooked to the left, landing in the driving range near many marked range balls.  When I finally found my ball I used an eight iron to get it on the green and about 12 feet from the cup.  When I looked at my comrades they were taking a drop beside the same water hazard and both missed the green.  The only thing keeping me from winning this hole was my putting.  I drove up close to the green and patiently waited for both guys to “chip” up to where my ball lie and I couldn’t keep from smiling. I then went in for my putter but couldn’t find what I was looking for.  “What the heck?”  I kept looking and kept looking and finally realized that my putter was not in the bag.  The sun was shining brightly now and I thought that I could see something with polished metal at the bottom of the bag.  I reached down and pulled out a 28” junior putter.  It was the same putter that I had bought for my granddaughter, Avaya some ten years before, when I had taken her out to this same golf course.  I had pulled out the wrong putter when I had “lightened my load.”
 
It had been a fun time.  Avaya had been 4 years old and she and her mom lived with us.  Her mom was attending The University of Houston and was focused on getting a degree in education while working full-time.  Avaya’s grandmother, who Avaya affectionately calls “Nonnie,” was active in helping to raise her granddaughter and she often asked me to entertain her.  Avaya called me “Pa,” as she does to this day, and she had me wrapped around her finger, as she does to this day.  I had mentioned to my wife that I was thinking about playing a round of golf and she asked “Why don’t you take Avaya with you?”  I dismissed the idea at first but then thought that she might enjoy using a putter on the putting green near the clubhouse.  I made my decision and told Avaya that we were going on another adventure. 
 
After a quick lunch Avaya and I arrived at ACADEMY.  I found some golf balls and we then took a look at the junior clubs.  Showing some enthusiasm, she picked out a putter that she was drawn to and I spent $20 on it.  30 minutes later, we were both putting near the clubhouse.  Although it held her interest for a while I could see that it wouldn’t for long.  We loaded up a cart and drove to the first tee box.  We had the course pretty much to ourselves and I let her “tee off” with her putter.  We had a good laugh and then she seemed to be content with watching me.  I had her drop a ball on the first green and we both putted to the hole.  It went like that for a couple of holes and then she climbed behind the wheel of the golf cart as I was teeing off at hole 4 or 5.  When I came back to the cart she looked up at me and I looked back at her.  I asked “Do you want to drive us to the next hole?”  That’s all it took.  Amazingly, this 4-year old granddaughter drove that cart like she had been driving it all of her life and half of mine!  She slowly braked at each stop and she waited patiently as I took each shot.  Avaya and I both had a great time and laughed as if we were getting away with something.  Actually, we were.  If the owner of the golf course had seen her driving his cart he would have kicked both of us off of his course.  One had to offer up a valid driver’s license in order to drive a cart and Avaya was 12 years away from getting one of those.  I explained it to her and I took over the driving when we got close to the clubhouse.  It wasn’t until we were out of sight that she took over again.
 
The years have gone by fast and the two of us often remark on this memory that we made together.  She hasn’t been on a golf course since that day and now instead plays soccer, basketball, and volleyball in her free time.  I’m proud of the young woman she has become and I look forward to seeing where her life will take her.  She is smart and has a lot of integrity.  She doesn’t boast, brag, or condemn.  She’s a listener, and an observer, and her heart is empathetic to others around her.  She is good at teaching and directing others and I think that she will make a difference in the world.  What I like most about her is that she is often smiling and her eyes smile really big.
 
Ronnie and Roger both walked up to the green and saw me bending over to putt my ball in the hole.  “Where did you get that putter?” one of them asked.  “It’s an old one I had in my bag!” I answered.  I two-putted the ball for par.  “That’s a good putter even if it is short!” one of them exclaimed.  “Yup, I think that I’ll use it for the rest of the game,” I said.  I ended up shooting an 89 that day, and my putts were the best ever.

​​Ethel “Eileen” Taverner Hess was born September 4, 1917 in Lewisham, Ontario, Canada.  She was the oldest of nine children and she helped to raise her brothers and sisters during the depression years of the nineteen-thirties and forties.  Like most families they grew their own vegetables and killed local game to provide for the nourishment of their bodies and the love of family brought them through hard times.  Freshwater catfish and a hymnbook were staples for survival and blueberry picking was a skill that every family member was efficient at.  Eileen married young and had one child named Patricia, whom she affectionately called “Patsy.” 
 
By the late 1950’s, Patricia had grown up to be a young woman and Eileen’s brothers and sisters were all grown as well.  Their parents left the hamlet of Lewisham and moved down the road to Barkway.  Eileen remarried and she and her husband, Hank started a life outside of Gravenhurst.  It was a happier time and the entire Taverner family prospered in the area and each of Eileen’s brothers and sisters raised families of their own. Patsy immigrated to the U.S., found work as a Stenographer, and married a man from the states.  Eileen focused her efforts on her husband and their home and she talked to her daughter “long distance” whenever she got the chance.  Hank was good at making money, better than most, and the two of them enjoyed what life had to offer.  This included traveling with Hank’s job and building a house on Doe Lake.  Eileen drove in to Barkway once or twice each week to take care of her aging parents.
 
Patricia had two children and settled in Upstate New York, about 350 miles south of where Eileen and Hank lived.  She brought the children up to visit on the odd Easter or Christmas holiday but it was the summers that her son, Michael remembers more than any other times.   Eileen, or “Gram” as he called her, was a wonderful grandmother to him but she was also someone whom he admired and respected.  She was someone who stayed positive but told you the way it was.  She faced adversity with her head held high and she rolled up her sleeves without calling it “sacrifice.”  She always moved forward but remembered where she came from.  She was attentive to others and would drop whatever she was doing to help someone, whether it was to cook a meal or offer a pleasant thought.  She didn’t boast, brag, or condemn and she would do something rather than talk about doing something.  She had a smile for most occasions and her eyes smiled really big.
 
“Where are we going, Mother?” I asked.  “We’re going to find THE OPEONGA ROAD,” said Patricia.  It was 2004 and I was up on holiday from Texas.  I had been to Ontario to visit several times over the years but it was just me this time.  Mother lived alone now, and my own children were almost grown, and I had flown up for this trip and had rented a car in Toronto.  Mother read in a magazine article several years before about an area where Irish Settlers had immigrated to eastern Ontario in the 19th century.  Though the people and the towns were gone, their descendants and a few of the old structures still stood.  Mother wanted to make a pilgrimage to see what the Irish had seen when they first came off the boats that delivered them by way of the St. Lawrence River and the Ottawa River in the 1830’s, 40’s, and 50’s.  It sounded intriguing and the road trip would get Mother out of the house for a couple of days. 
 
The Muskoka area is beautiful at all times of year.  My Canadian family lives primarily in this area but this trip was a little north and east of anything I had seen before.  The landscape didn’t disappoint and Mother and I marveled at our surroundings as we twisted the back roads to our destination.  It was a roller coaster of hills and the fall colors were magnificent at every turn.  We eventually came to the ghost town of Balaclava, the home of old farm barns that stood tall and proud after a century and a half of when craftsmen built them.  We stopped on a bridge that overlooked a creek and an old wood mill.  The scene looked like something out of a Thomas Kincade painting and we stood there for several minutes, watching the reflection of the mill against the still water of the pond in the foreground. 
 
We spent the night in Renfrew, roughly twenty-five miles from the Quebec border.  It was an older hotel from the 70’s, complete with a small elevator and a front desk adorned with polished brass, and a restaurant that promised “fine dining.”  Mother and I ordered a salad & steak as we sat in the near-empty dining room of the establishment.  We had a way of talking for hours and that night was no exception.  We would go on about family, history, life lessons, & spirituality.  We talked about books, authors, art, movies and music.  The topics were limitless and, as long as we steered clear of religion and politics, our conversations were upbeat and would pass the time quickly.  When they finally brought our steaks to us an hour later we had hardly noticed that they were late.  We turned in shortly after retiring to our rooms.
 
Spirituality is something that each of us in this world experiences differently.  I like to think that we all have our own journey, our own road to get to where we’re going.  In 2002, I had become a Catholic Christian after being baptized at the Easter Vigil at our hometown church.  That is a story in itself and I will write about it one day.  When Mother and I woke up the next morning she reminded me that we were going to drive to Mount St. Patrick and try to find a Catholic church that had been erected near the site of a holy well that was discovered in 1867.  There was something fantastic about what we were about to see.  I didn’t know how I knew that.  I just knew. 
 
Finding the road to Mount St. Patrick was almost impossible.  Truthfully, we almost gave up looking for it and my joy for this trip was dwindling.  However, once we drove up to the church property all of our anxieties melted away.  It wasn’t the church that we were interested in so much as the holy well that Mother had read about.  Father John McCormac arrived in the area in January of 1867 and the story is that he blessed the well in Irish tradition and the priest and his flock of settlers built a church on the site in 1869.  The water is said to have healing properties and a well was built near the creek that runs through the land.  We walked up to the pump house and just looked at each other.  It was quite unremarkable and at first we thought we had found the wrong place.  After entering into the very small building that was painted white and baby blue, we found testimonies on the inside walls of the building, written on various scraps of paper and fastened to the walls with tape, tacks, and even chewing gum.  There was a sign on the pump that read “Not potable water,” and we felt a little disappointed.  I asked Mother “Do you want to pump some holy water?”  She just laughed and said “Sure, why not?”  We found a couple of glass containers in our rental car and we went to work filling them.  All of a sudden, there was a feeling of calmness and peace that washed over us.  It was a holiness that we both felt and it changed the way we behaved.  We became reverent of our surroundings and began to take the written testimonies seriously.  We signed the guest book that was displayed in the place and visited the grave of the priest who had started all of this.  Fr. McCormac died in 1874 at the young age of 33.  The town that had once prospered in the area was gone and all that remained was the church, the cemetery, and the holy well.  We got in the car and drove in silence for a long time. 
 
We found “The Opeongo Road” later that morning.  There were several markers on highway 60 and we drove the meandering blacktop north and west for several miles while looking at the old barns along the way.  Our pilgrimage ended in Wilno where we found a local pub and we parked our bums while enjoying a sandwich with our dark beer.  After a time we got back in our time capsule and headed farther west, enjoying the southernmost area of Algonquin Provincial Park.  We kept a lookout for moose but found only signs that read “Moose Crossing.”  As the sun disappeared over the horizon we plotted a course south to Mother’s place and we arrived late that night.
 
My grandmother, who had lived with Mother for several years, had taken a fall a couple of years before and was currently residing in a nursing home in Gravenhurst.  She was in the late stages of Alzheimer’s and she no longer recognized anyone.  Mother had taken me to see her before our road trip and it was a visit that I didn’t care to make.  I had seen Gram in 2002 when my daughter, Lori and I had visited and that was when I had witnessed for the first time what the disease was doing to her, and to Mother.  Her short-term memory was limited at that time and she talked mostly about her childhood.  She had told me the story of a man in Lewisham who had bought her some reading glasses when she was young because he realized that her family could not afford to buy them and he had the means.  It was a story from her youngest days that she had never told me and her eyes gleamed as she talked, as if it happened yesterday.  She yearned for pieces of candy and she refused to eat her vegetables.  This was the same woman who had eaten healthy all of her life and had often quipped “The mind is the first thing to go.”  Now she no longer conversed with people and she swore like a sailor.  It was hard to recognize the woman in the wheelchair.   During our visit a few days before, Gram held up her hand and yelled “Taxi!” incessantly.  Mother and I had left without saying goodbye.
 
It was the day before I was to return home and I told Mother that I wanted to see Gram once again.  I told her that I wanted to do it on my own and she said okay.  I had already begun to pack a few things and I had put the holy water into a shoulder bag along with some snacks for the plane ride.  For no reason, I decided to bring the shoulder bag with me to the nursing home.  I followed the same path that Mother and I had taken days before to the Alzheimer’s wing where security was a little tighter.  Some of the patients there were known for “escaping” and one had to know a combination to get in and out of the main door.  I walked up to the nurse’s station and a nurse I had met the other day told me “Your grandmother is in the dining room.  We’re just about to feed them lunch.”  When I entered the dining room I saw a sea of white hair.  Some of the old people were staring at me while others looked down or slept as they waited for lunch to be served.  Some of them talked amongst themselves and one of them was yelling.  It was Gram.  “Taxi!  Taxi!”  Her right hand was raised as if to hail a cab and she yelled loudly.  “Taxi!”  I was forty-two years old but I felt like a child again, waiting for my grandmother to tell me what to do next.  I knew that simple instructions such as these would not be coming from her mouth now or ever again.  She was sitting at a round table with three other residents. 
 
The familiar nurse walked in and seemed to sense my trepidation.  She made me feel at ease and offered “Why don’t you sit down beside your grandma?  There’s an empty seat there and you can feed her if you like.”  About that time, Gram yelled again.  I was pretty close to her now and realized for the first time that she was not yelling “Taxi!” She was calling “Patsy!”  I listened to her some more and heard her say very clearly “Patsy!”  I laughed nervously.  I took the seat beside her and she made eye contact with me for the first time.  I was scared that she would start yelling again or maybe even stab me with her fork.  But, it was as if she really saw me, and then she smiled.  Those blue and silver eyes were smiling, too and all was good.  I looked down and saw that the holy water was about to fall out of my bag.   I quickly put my hand around it and placed it on the table.  I made some small talk with Gram as I got comfortable in my chair.  The first course was mashed potatoes and I fed her as if she were a child.  She continued to smile and she remained calm the whole time.  Another course came out and I spooned that to her as well.  I then looked up to where the front doors of the dining room were and there stood a priest!  I quickly asked the nurse “What is that priest doing here?”  She told me “Priests come through here all of the time.  They visit all of the nursing homes in Muskoka.  We never know when they’ll be here or which priest we’ll get, but they don’t stay long.  Do you need him for something?”  I quickly rose from my seat and walked to where the priest stood.  He was standing beside a nun and they both saw that I was approaching them.  “Pardon me,” I said.  “Could you do a blessing?”  I explained the holy well and the holy water like a bumbling idiot and the priest asked “Do you want me to bless the water or your grandmother?”  “Both!” I exclaimed.  The priest and the nun both followed me to Gram’s table.  I gave him the water and he said some words over it.  He then opened the bottle and got his fingertips wet with the contents and he reached down and touched Gram on the forehead and said some more words as she looked up at him with a smile on her face.  She continued to be at peace and I thanked the priest and nun for the kind act they had performed.  It was a wonderful experience.  Again, there was a sense of calmness and tranquility that I felt.  It seemed to me as if the same calmness washed over Gram and the entire dining room of “Leisure World.”  I can’t explain it better than that.
 
Gram was done eating and one of the nursing staff aides told me that I could wheel her into the sitting room to watch television.  So, I did and I took a seat facing her.  She got a little fidgety and I could see that she wasn’t going to watch any television.  I remembered that I had a chocolate bar in my bag.  I pulled it out and asked her if she wanted some.  She suddenly got still and nodded her head yes.  I fed her a couple of pieces and then she fell asleep in her chair.  She looked peaceful.  It was the last time that I saw my grandmother.
 
This is a story that I wrote many years ago.  Like most stories that I have written, it was done spontaneously and I have no record of it nor have I found anyone who remembers reading it.  I wrote it again, trying to stay true to the original.  It is a testament to my grandmother who was an inspiration to many.  She came from humble beginnings and worked for what she had.  She taught me to help others and she continues to try and teach me to have a healthy diet.  She is someone who had a lot of class and I always admired her wit and sense of humor.  I miss her and I look forward to the time that I will see her again.

​​He came to us in 2004 and there was something about him. He had a smile like a card player who knew what everyone else at the table was holding. He had seen the same hands played over and over again and he seemed to know the outcome each time. That’s the way I felt about his personality. He was a little older and a little wiser and he knew how to shepherd his flock. He had a secret and he wasn’t afraid to share it . . . “Jesus is The Way, and The Truth, and The Life!” I wanted to follow him.

I first came to know Father Bob Duggan when he attended one of our Parish Social Ministry meetings and I learned early on that he was a man of God. He knew what was important in our ministry and he wasn’t afraid to “shake the branches” in order to get things done and he encouraged me to do the same. He seemed to meet allies in every place that he went and we all knew that we could trust his direction. I believe that all of his decisions were based on what he thought Jesus would do.

I later learned that Fr. Bob was born on February 2nd 1935. It stuck with me because my own father, who was also “Bob,” was born on February 4th of the same year. I attended mass one Sunday and Father’s homily was about honoring our mothers and fathers. It hit home with me and I reconciled with my own father after being in “the outs” with him for several years. I learned that he had emphysema and was on oxygen treatments. For the first time, I developed empathy for the life he had lived and we developed a new relationship. After visiting with him regularly for almost a year he was diagnosed with lung cancer after a lifetime of smoking. Dad had cut himself off from most of his children and grandchildren and it was important to me that he died with a sense of dignity and respect. After he passed away late one night I called Fr. Bob for a consultation and he agreed to meet with me right away.

The whole ordeal was a lot harder than I had thought it would be and Fr. Bob was great. He had seen a lot of death in his time and he knew that my Dad was in a better place. He knew just what to say and I felt like I was the only one who mattered to him at that moment. The Holy Spirit was present also in his church office and my grieving was met by a healing that I can’t describe. I mentioned to him that the family wanted to do a memorial service and Fr. Bob made several suggestions to help in the planning of it even though Dad wasn’t Catholic. I really appreciated his help.

According to “The Testimony of Catalina,” the Holy Mass is something quite different from what most of see when we celebrate the Eucharist. In the spiritual realm, we are all invited to participate in the mass, and after adequate preparation, live it with our hearts. We should reconcile ourselves, pray for transformation, and offer ourselves as a holocaust so that Jesus may transform us by his own merits. At the mass is Mother Mary, located behind the priest, as are all of the Saints and the Blessed of Heaven. Thousands of angels arrive to witness the moment of consecration and at the moment that the priest says the words he is surrounded and wrapped by Jesus Himself. The walls of the church melt away and we are all brought to the foot of Calvary, to the moment of the crucifixion of Christ. He asks for forgiveness to the Father, not only for the ones who killed Him, but also for each one of our sins. Jesus tells Catalina “I rejoice in embracing a soul who comes with a clean heart to receive me.” Fr. Bob knew all of this and he made it his mission to prepare us each Sunday for the week ahead. I am grateful for the way he made his messages simple so that we could follow.

In the spring of 2008 my in-laws began attending mass with me, my wife, and our children. My father-in-law heard about a “Christ Renews His Parish” Men’s Retreat that was coming up and he quietly expressed an interest in attending. I went over to his house one afternoon and asked him if he was really interested. He said that he didn’t want to attend it alone and I said “Good, cause I signed both of us up!” At that time, I had been married to Tony’s daughter for 26 years. We had done a lot of things together in that time but the CRHP retreat sealed our relationship. It was also good to see Tony form a relationship with Fr. Bob that weekend.

In August of 2008 Tony had a series of mini –strokes. His health deteriorated over the next several months and he began to develop dementia. He also had kidney dialysis treatments three times a week and it was hard on our family. Fr. Bob was always there to counsel us and he made himself available when we needed him. As the end was nearing, Fr. Bob came over to my in-law’s house. Tony was lying down in a hospital bed and there were several family members in the small bedroom with him. Fr. Bob entered the room and a miracle took place. Tony, who no longer recognized anyone, hadn’t spoken a word in several days and none of us thought we would hear him speak again. He looked up at the old priest’s smile and said “Fr. Bob! You came to see me!” My daughter, Lori said that his painful disposition seemed to wash away and for just a few minutes her grandfather was back! He was coherent and the two older men even talked about baseball. The Holy Spirit was strong in that place and everyone present who wasn’t a believer became one. Fr. Bob gave the whole family comfort when Tony passed away days later and he officiated the funeral mass.

The Most Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Angleton, Texas lost a great leader a couple of weeks ago. He was called father, brother, friend, confidant, ally, padre, preacher, minister, teacher, uncle, cousin, counselor, story teller, and wonderful listener. We were lucky to have him in our lives and I am forever grateful that he was in mine. He was 80 years young and he helped to keep us all on the path to salvation. He reminded us of the moral compass we are all born with and he made us realize that sin is part of the human condition. We are all called to find God in our lives and it is the responsibility of each of us to evangelize others so that all may be reunited with Him. Fr. Bob taught me that and he didn’t always use words.