November is the month in which the Church devotes herself especially to the remembrance of those who have died in the previous year. As we acknowledge the communion of saints already "raised to the altar" in Heaven, we also pray for those among the righteous of this life, who nonetheless part from this earth with sufficient imperfections, so as to remain in a state of purification, at the end of which they are released to witness the Beatific Vision, to see their God face to face in Glory.
And so, as is said in the Book of Maccabees: “It is a good and holy thought to pray for the dead.” The chorus of both the "Church Suffering" (the souls of purgatory) and the "Church Triumphant" (the saints in heaven), along with the choirs of angels, are among the assembled at every Mass with the "Church Militant" (the rest of us).
The second day of the month is traditionally known as All Souls Day in the western Church. In Latin America and other former Spanish colonies, it is also known as "dia de los muertos" (day of the dead). But since the celebration usually would have begun on the eve of All Saints Day (All Hallows' Eve, or Halloween), it is often referred to in the plural. In former Hispanic territories such as the Philippines, Celia's family still goes to the cemetery where their deceased loved ones are buried, not simply to lay flowers, but for a picnic. That sounds rather bizarre to us in the States, unless you consider the mayhem we make out of Halloween. Customs associated with this holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased, using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed. It is likely that such confections are brought with the family to the graves.
In Mexico, legend has it that, on All Saints Day, loved ones are visited in the cemetery by the souls of children, especially those with the gift of baptism and before the age of reason (around seven years of age), and so are believed to be already in heaven. The legend goes on into the following day, that of All Souls Day, when they are visited by the ghosts of adults who have passed away.
VIDEO: Mexico City, 2018.
The human skull is a favorite image associated with the feast. Homemade candies in the shape of skulls are given as treats to children, and adults are known to parade in the streets in costumes featuring their faces painted accordingly.
The origins of these customs have been traced back thousands of years, to indigenous observances dedicated to the Aztec goddess Mictecacihuatl. We can surmise that the Spanish colonizers "christianized" the observance in the manner that we know today (a process surely more complicated than simply placing an image of Pachamama on the altar of God ... but that's another story).
In the month to come, man with black hat will feature other writings on matters of what Catholic teaching refers to as "The Last Things."
As part of our remembrance of the month of November, as that which Catholics associate with intentions of the dead and the Life Beyond, we devote this piece to the preparation of the dying. Catholics in the health care professions, particularly those devoted to home and hospice care, may have a unique opportunity to bring their commission through Baptism to the fore. But it is no less so to friends and family of those who prepare for the Inevitable. Here at “Chez Alexandre” we have a silver troika, consisting of a crucifix between two candlesticks. When a patient under Celia's care has passed away, we recite the Psalms together while the crucifix with lit candles is on the table before us. We have found the so-called "penitential psalms" also known as the "psalms of confession" to be quite suitable. They are: Psalms 6, 31(32), 37(38), 50(51), 101(102), 129(130), and 142(143). (NOTE: The numbering system from the Latin Vulgata is given preference here. Most modern usage employs the Greek, or Septuagint numbering, which appears here in parenthesis.) Of these, Psalm 50(51), the Miserere is the most appropriate:
Every Catholic home should have a "sick call set" handy, for the use of the priest or deacon who visits the sick or dying. It consists of a crucifix and two candles on a white tablecloth by the bedside, along with a vial of holy water, and a dish of regular water with a small white cloth for ablutions. The use of the palm from Palm Sunday, and a bell to announce the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, is optional. It has become common to have such a set self-contained in a wall crucifix, the top portion of which can be detached, to access the accessories contained in the base. (See image at left.)
The priest who comes to the door with the Sacrament does so in silence, and should be greeted by a person carrying a lighted candle. He will say, "Pax huic dómui."("Peace be unto this house.") The greeter should respond, "Et ómnibus habitántibus in ea."("And all who dwell therein.") The cleric is led to the room in silence. All genuflect or kneel in the presence of the Sacrament. In the event that the patient needs to confess his sins, all must leave the room, including the primary caregiver. A priest is trained to know when other assistance is needed. In the event that the patient lacks capacity to confess, a general absolution may be given. If a priest or deacon is unavailable, the faithful are nonetheless able to help prepare a soul for the journey. A page devoted to this is found at Fisheaters.com. A prominent feature to this guide is the prayer known by its beginning word in Latin: Proficiscere.
Of course, circumstances may dictate the length or brevity of such preparations. The communal praying of the Rosary, particularly the use of the Sorrowful Mysteries, is most commendable whatever the circumstances. Once the soul has passed on, a different set of prayers is appropriate. As the time before death is devoted to preparation, that which follows requires intercession from on high. One most appropriate form is the Responsorium, the Responsory for the Dead:
Our series continues later this month, with a reflection on Catholic funerals, and the practices associated with them.
[As this month is when Catholics traditionally contemplate the "Last Things" -- death, judgment, heaven, hell -- we choose this opportunity to reprint an article from November of 2009. -- DLA] .
November is the month in which the Church devotes herself especially to the remembrance of those who have died in the previous year. As we acknowledge the communion of saints already "raised to the altar" in Heaven, we also pray for those among the righteous of this life, who nonetheless part from this earth with sufficient imperfections, so as to remain in a state of purification, at the end of which they are released to witness the Beatific Vision, to see their God face to face in Glory.
And so, as is said in the Book of Maccabees: “It is a good and holy thought to pray for the dead.” The chorus of both the "Church Suffering" (the souls of purgatory) and the "Church Triumphant" (the saints in heaven), along with the choirs of angels, are among the assembled at every Mass with the "Church Militant" (the rest of us).
The second day of the month is traditionally known as All Souls Day in the western Church. In Latin America and other former Spanish colonies, it is also known as "dia de los muertos" (day of the dead). But since the celebration usually would have begun on the eve of All Saints Day (All Hallows' Eve, or Halloween), it is often referred to in the plural. In former Hispanic territories such as the Philippines, Celia's family still goes to the cemetery where their deceased loved ones are buried, not simply to lay flowers, but for a picnic. That sounds rather bizarre to us in the States, unless you consider the mayhem we make out of Halloween. Customs associated with this holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased, using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed. It is likely that such confections are brought with the family to the graves.
In Mexico, legend has it that, on All Saints Day, loved ones are visited in the cemetery by the souls of children, especially those with the gift of baptism and before the age of reason (around seven years of age), and so are believed to be already in heaven. The legend goes on into the following day, that of All Souls Day, when they are visited by the ghosts of adults who have passed away.
VIDEO: Mexico City, 2018.
The human skull is a favorite image associated with the feast. Homemade candies in the shape of skulls are given as treats to children, and adults are known to parade in the streets in costumes featuring their faces painted accordingly.
The origins of these customs have been traced back thousands of years, to indigenous observances dedicated to the Aztec goddess Mictecacihuatl. We can surmise that the Spanish colonizers "christianized" the observance in the manner that we know today (a process surely more complicated than simply placing an image of Pachamama on the altar of God ... but that's another story).
In the month to come, man with black hat will feature other writings on matters of what Catholic teaching refers to as "The Last Things."
November is the month in which the Church devotes herself especially to the remembrance of those who have died in the previous year. As we acknowledge the communion of saints already "raised to the altar" in Heaven, we also pray for those among the righteous of this life, who nonetheless part from this earth with sufficient imperfections, so as to remain in a state of purification, at the end of which they are released to witness the Beatific Vision, to see their God face to face in Glory.
And so, as is said in the Book of Maccabees: “It is a good and holy thought to pray for the dead.” The chorus of both the "Church Suffering" (the souls of purgatory) and the "Church Triumphant" (the saints in heaven), along with the choirs of angels, are among the assembled at every Mass with the "Church Militant" (the rest of us).
The second day of the month is traditionally known as All Souls Day in the western Church. In Latin America and other former Spanish colonies, it is also known as "dia de los muertos" (day of the dead). But since the celebration usually would have begun on the eve of All Saints Day (All Hallows' Eve, or Halloween), it is often referred to in the plural. In former Hispanic territories such as the Philippines, Celia's family still goes to the cemetery where their deceased loved ones are buried, not simply to lay flowers, but for a picnic. That sounds rather bizarre to us in the States, unless you consider the mayhem we make out of Halloween. Customs associated with this holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased, using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed. It is likely that such confections are brought with the family to the graves.
In Mexico, legend has it that, on All Saints Day, loved ones are visited in the cemetery by the souls of children, especially those with the gift of baptism and before the age of reason (around seven years of age), and so are believed to be already in heaven. The legend goes on into the following day, that of All Souls Day, when they are visited by the ghosts of adults who have passed away.
VIDEO: Mexico City, 2018.
The human skull is a favorite image associated with the feast. Homemade candies in the shape of skulls are given as treats to children, and adults are known to parade in the streets in costumes featuring their faces painted accordingly.
The origins of these customs have been traced back thousands of years, to indigenous observances dedicated to the Aztec goddess Mictecacihuatl. We can surmise that the Spanish colonizers "christianized" the observance in the manner that we know today (a process surely more complicated than simply placing an image of Pachamama on the altar of God ... but that's another story).
In the month to come, man with black hat will feature other writings on matters of what Catholic teaching refers to as "The Last Things."
November is the month in which the Church devotes herself especially to the remembrance of those who have died in the previous year. As we acknowledge the communion of saints already "raised to the altar" in Heaven, we also pray for those among the righteous of this life, who nonetheless part from this earth with sufficient imperfections, so as to remain in a state of purification, at the end of which they are released to witness the Beatific Vision, to see their God face to face in Glory.
And so, as is said in the Book of Maccabees: “It is a good and holy thought to pray for the dead.” The chorus of both the "Church Suffering" (the souls of purgatory) and the "Church Triumphant" (the saints in heaven), along with the choirs of angels, are among the assembled at every Mass with the "Church Militant" (the rest of us).
The second day of the month is traditionally known as All Souls Day in the western Church. In Latin America and other former Spanish colonies, it is also known as "dia de los muertos" (day of the dead). But since the celebration usually would have begun on the eve of All Saints Day (All Hallows' Eve, or Halloween), it is often referred to in the plural. In former Hispanic territories such as the Philippines, Sal's family still goes to the cemetery where their deceased loved ones are buried, not simply to lay flowers, but for a picnic. That sounds rather bizarre to us in the States, unless you consider the mayhem we make out of Halloween. Customs associated with this holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased, using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed. It is likely that such confections are brought with the family to the graves.
The human skull is a favorite image associated with the feast. Homemade candies in the shape of skulls are given as treats to children, and adults are known to parade in the streets in costumes featuring their faces painted accordingly.
The origins of these customs have been traced back thousands of years, to indigenous observances dedicated to the Aztec goddess Mictecacihuatl. We can surmise that the Spanish colonizers "christianized" the observance in the manner that we know today.
In the month to come, man with black hat will feature other writings on matters of what Catholic teaching refers to as "The Last Things."
November is the month in which the Church devotes herself especially to the remembrance of those who have died in the previous year. As we acknowledge the communion of saints already "raised to the altar" in Heaven, we also pray for those among the righteous of this life, who nonetheless part from this earth with sufficient imperfections, so as to remain in a state of purification, at the end of which they are released to witness the Beatific Vision, to see their God face to face in Glory.
And so, as is said in the Book of Maccabees: “It is a good and holy thought to pray for the dead.” The chorus of both the "Church Suffering" (the souls of purgatory) and the "Church Triumphant" (the saints in heaven), along with the choirs of angels, are among the assembled at every Mass with the "Church Militant" (the rest of us).
The second day of the month is traditionally known as All Souls Day in the western Church. In Latin America and other former Spanish colonies, it is also known as "dia de los muertos" (day of the dead). But since the celebration usually would have begun on the eve of All Saints Day (All Hallows' Eve, or Halloween), it is often referred to in the plural. In former Hispanic territories such as the Philippines, Sal's family still goes to the cemetery where their deceased loved ones are buried, not simply to lay flowers, but for a picnic. That sounds rather bizarre to us in the States, unless you consider the mayhem we make out of Halloween. Customs associated with this holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased, using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed. It is likely that such confections are brought with the family to the graves.
The human skull is a favorite image associated with the feast. Homemade candies in the shape of skulls are given as treats to children, and adults are known to parade in the streets in costumes featuring their faces painted accordingly.
The origins of these customs have been traced back thousands of years, to indigenous observances dedicated to the Aztec goddess Mictecacihuatl. We can surmise that the Spanish colonizers "christianized" the observance in the manner that we know today.
In the month to come, man with black hat will feature other writings on matters of what Catholic teaching refers to as "The Last Things."
(NOTA BENE: This year, the second of the month falls on a Sunday. In the traditional form of the Roman rite, the feast of All Souls transfers to the next day, a Monday, as no Requiem Mass is to be celebrated on the weekday of the Resurrection, thus distinguishing the "little Easter" from the time of mourning. In the reformed calendar, however, all fixed solemnities rank above the Mass of the Sunday, and as All Souls Day falls in this category, most Catholics of the Latin church, those who attend the "Novus Ordo Missae," will retain the celebration on the second of the month for this year.)
He identifies himself as Presbyterian, but he has much to say to a Catholic, during a month when Catholics are admonished to consider the Last Things, as he muses on the passing of old neighbors, and the greeting of new ones, as one might the changing of the seasons.
November is the month in which the Church devotes herself especially, to the remembrance of those who have died in the previous year. As we remember the communion of saints already "raised to the altar" in Heaven, we also pray for those among the righteous of this life, who nonetheless part from this earth with sufficient imperfections, so as to remain in a state of purification, at the end of which they are released to witness the Beatific Vision, to see their God face to face in Glory.
And so, as is said in the Book of Maccabees: “It is a good and holy thought to pray for the dead.” The chorus of both the "Church Suffering" (the souls of purgatory) and the "Church Triumphant" (the saints in heaven), along with the choirs of angels, are among the assembled at every Mass with the "Church Militant" (the rest of us).
As tomorrow will be All Souls Day in the western Church, it is also known as "dia de los muertos" (day of the dead) in Spanish-speaking countries. But since the celebration usually would have begun on the eve of All Saints Day (All Hallows' Eve, or Halloween), it is often referred to in the plural, and today's feast would be included in the celebration as well. In former Spanish colonies such as the Philippines, Sal's family still goes to the cemetery where their deceased loved ones are buried, not simply to lay flowers, but for a picnic. That sounds rather bizarre, unless you consider the mayhem we make out of Halloween here in the States. Customs associated with this holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased, using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed. It is likely that such confections are brought with Sal's family to the graves.
The human skull is a favorite image associated with the feast. Homemade candies in the shape of skulls are given as treats to children, and adults are known to parade in the streets in costumes featuring their faces painted accordingly.
The origins of these customs have been traced back thousands of years, to indigenous observances dedicated to the Aztec goddess Mictecacihuatl. We can surmise that the Spanish colonizers "christianized" the observance in the manner that we know today.
In the month to come, man with black hat will feature other writings on matters of what Catholic teaching refers to as "The Last Things."
One of the most prolific artists of country music died this morning, from complications related to irregular blood pressure. He was 81.
Born in a log cabin in Saratoga, Texas (a town outside of Beaumont), George got his first guitar when he was nine, and was playing for change on the streets shortly thereafter. From there he went on to local radio shows. His first recorded hit in 1955, “Why Baby Why” made it to number four on the country charts, the first of many in a recording career that included 119 singles under his own name, 68 albums, 26 collaborative albums, 24 compilation albums ... one could go on. In 1956, he became a member of the Grand Olde Opry.
It was particularly in later years that he was hailed as "the greatest living country singer," with unique facial characteristics that earned him the nickname “Possum.” But it was not only his distinctive voice that lent to his critical acclaim. In the tradition of Hank Williams and other country artists, Jones lived out the songs that he wrote. It was a life of hard living, hard drinking, drug addiction, bouts with the law, and stormy marriages. There were four of the latter, the first when he was 19, which lasted only a year. But he is best known for his third marriage, to country singer-songwriter Tammy Wynette, whom he wed in 1969. Despite a reputation as an abusive and irresponsible husband, their tribulations were often the inspiration for their duets, and a musical collaboration that far outlasted the marriage, which ended in divorce in 1975. Even his failure to show up for performances inspired the song “No-Show Jones.” What's more, his 1996 arrest for riding a lawn mower on an open road was parodied in the music video “Honky Tonk Song.” His cameo appearances in other country music videos also found him riding on a lawn mower.
But it was during his fourth marriage in 1983 to Jenny Johnson, that he cleaned up his act, and she was considered instrumental in his recovery from addiction. He was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame in 1992, and was named a Kennedy Center Honoree in 2008. In 2012 he was presented with a Grammy Lifetime Achievement award. It was during this latter period that he recorded a song penned by Billy Yates and Mike Curtis entitled “Choices.”
I've had choices
Since the day that I was born
There were voices
That told me right from wrong
If I had listened
No I wouldn't be here today
Living and dying
With the choices I made
Among the many albums he recorded were collections of gospel hymns. Some might have thought him to be a hypocrite for this, but a man at his lowest on a Saturday night can still wish for his highest on a Sunday morning. Russell Moore speaks to this desperation of the heart in his First Things article.
For yours truly, there is a sadness that comes with the news of George Jones' passing, and a longing for days gone by. They were the days when a singer who billed himself as a country or country-western artist, was not of the comfortable suburban middle-class life, that permeated themes of the "countrypolitan" sound in the 1970s, nor the over-styled, stereotypical exurban refined redneck with designer jeans that populates the airwaves today, but one who was truly without pretense, without pre-packaging, who was genuinely “born and bred, cornbread fed.” That generation is passing, one at a time, and we will never see their like again.
If the failings of a man that were so well-published are to be forgiven him, let it serve as a reminder to us all, of the reality of the Divine Mercy, and our own need to call upon Him for ourselves.
Whenever I walk to Suffern
along the Erie track
I go by a poor old farmhouse
with its shingles broken and black.
I suppose I've passed it a hundred times,
but I always stop for a minute
And look at the house, the tragic house,
the house with nobody in it.
The place now known as Milford, Ohio, has been someone's home for thousands of years.
During the time of Christ, it was occupied by the mound builders of the Adena people. By the end of the first millennium, it was home to a settlement of the Hopewell Nation, a once-great empire that flourished along the Ohio and mid-Mississippi River valleys. By the time of the European incursion, the nations of "the Woodland period" were forgotten, and the area had already long been the hunting ground of the Miamis. By the dawn of the twentieth century, rows of corn covered the fields east of a village first settled in 1806, carved out of a parcel awarded to a Revolutionary War officer.
John Nancarrow had never personally set foot on the land ... but, that's another story.
By the mid-1950s, the rural expanse to the east of Milford would become the site of homes to families of men, most of whom were just out of the Service. With its developers only aware enough of the land's prehistory to use it as a marketing device, a development known as Indian Knolls was built on the hill overlooking the cornfield below, which had already been developed as Clertoma Village. The streets of both developments were all named for the indigenous nations of the continent long vanquished by the white man -- Choctaw Lane, Mohawk Trail, Powhatton Drive, and so on. The houses were all virtually identical cookie-cutter starter homes, distinguished by exterior finish, but all of the same floor plan, with three bedrooms, one bath, a tiny kitchen, and a separate dining area, all totaling about 850 square feet, not counting the unfinished basement. It was typical of many such communities based on the model that was Levittown, New York. But near a small town in southwestern Ohio, and for only $15,000, a piece of the American dream could belong to a man with a decent living wage, and a family on the way.
I never have seen a haunted house,
but I hear there are such things;
That they hold the talk of spirits,
their mirth and sorrowings.
I know this house isn't haunted,
and I wish it were, I do;
For it wouldn't be so lonely
if it had a ghost or two.
In the summer of 1956, one such young couple with a toddling son, and a daughter as a babe in arms, bought a piece of that dream at 29 Winnebago Drive, and life began from there.
To those who lived in the old and established part of the town, the new development was known pejoratively as "Crackerbox Village." What manner of progress what this? Who were these upstarts, tearing down their quaint drive-in movie theater, replacing it with something called "Rink's Bargain City"? Emerging from the surroundings were not just one, but two new shopping centers, each with something called a "supermarket." It occurred to those firmly planted, that the days of the old A%P store downtown were numbered. Over time, the ancien regime came to accept the inevitable, but for years after it came, they resented this crass intrusion on the picture-postcard setting their new neighbors called home.
I can tell you my very earliest memory in detail. It was a cloudy Saturday, perhaps in the spring. I was about two or three years old. I was walking from the steps of the back porch towards the driveway. My father was washing the car, a muted lime green 1953 Ford sedan. I remember little else of that day, but my consciousness would appear to begin at that moment. I wonder where it was before. But in the months, in the years that followed, many other families with children arrived. The streets, the front yards, and the places in between were their domain. Summer days found them playing baseball in the street, Halloween nights were teeming with hundreds of them in costume, and the Christmas season was ablaze with a wonderland of multi-colored splendor. Everyone knew their neighbors, even those who went each their own way.
It was about 1964. I was playing in the yard with other kids -- so many other kids there were back then -- at a house down the street from mine. The husband and father of the house was a Southern Baptist minister. I didn't give such things very much thought, which is why I was surprised to see his name listed on the mailbox near the front door as: "Rev and Mrs Firsten Lastname." My reaction was a natural one for a precocious little boy, I suppose: "Hey, Beanie, this says your dad's a priest. I didn't know your dad was a priest. How can he be a priest if he's ..." Suddenly the front door opened, and an insistent lady of the house emerged: "He's not a priest, he's a minister, and he's just as important as your priest!" Boom! The door slammed shut, and that was that. Hey, I was nine-and-a-half years old. What the hell did I know about anything? This was the early 1960s, and the times were still relatively innocent. But tensions derived from cultural differences, and the co-existence in the face of the melting pot that was our little world, were still lurking in the dark corners. Children learned to put aside the differences that made adults uncomfortable. America elected a Catholic president, his cohorts in the faith could not be seen proselytizing through the children, and the Freemasons who lived among them could not be seen resenting these self-assured "Catlickers." Eventually these differences subsided, or at least were buried in polite company.
This house on the road to Suffern
needs a dozen panes of glass,
And somebody ought to weed the walk
and take a scythe to the grass.
It needs new paint and shingles,
and the vines should be trimmed and tied;
But what it needs the most of all
is some people living inside.
By the end of the 1960s, families grew in size, or in expectations, or both, and were leaving behind their humble abodes, with grand visions of four-bedroom split-levels, formal dining rooms, and half-acre lawns gracing the hillside out beyond the village limits. The years came and went, children came of age and sought their fortunes, older couples passed on to Florida, or passed from this life. The trees grew taller, some homes added garages, patios, and other extensions. "Crackerbox Village" was taking on a character of its own. One family, namely the Reverend and his wife and children, moved from the house down the street to the house next door. There were summer nights before the days of central air conditioning, when the windows in our bedrooms were left open to the screens and the cool breezes. My brother and I had the little room at the end of the hall. My bed was near the door. Mom and Dad would want it shut, but I wanted it open at a 45-degree angle, enough to use the full-length mirror to see the goings-on at the other end. As I drifted off to sleep, I could hear the Reverend and his family and friends, gathering around the upright piano, and singing hymns from the Old Baptist Hymnal.
Meanwhile, with each of us ending our grade school years, our parents eschewed the free education at the public high school at the edge of town, for a Catholic high school in an upper-class neighborhood closer to the city. It was a ride on a public school bus ten miles away, but it may as well have been ten thousand miles, as the kids from Milford brushed off the taunting of would-be city-bred sophisticates living near the school, about being a bunch of hicks from a small town. It got old after four years. Fortunately, it was over by then. Time went on, and the place we called home remained.
It was September of 1977. I was interning at a public television station in West Virginia when I got the call from Dad. He had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis only seven years earlier. Procter and Gamble gave him the consideration worthy of a loyal and dedicated company man, transferring him to a less stressful position away from the headquarters building, to the local district sales office. He had been working half-days for several months by now, but it only delayed the inevitable. Come that Friday, on his fifty-second birthday, he would leave on full and permanent disability. I remember Mom's first reaction, that of Dad being in the way all the time. But while Dad ruled the roost, Mom ruled the rooster, and one of the signs of a successful marriage is the ability to renegotiate what one might call "the balance of power" when fortunes change. And so, in many respects, Mom became the "man of the house," taking a more visible role in certain decisions, and being the "handy man" when things needed fixing. Growing up on a farm, pitching hay and driving a tractor by the time she was twelve, all this had prepared her for this role.
If I had a lot of money
and all my debts were paid
I'd put a gang of men to work
with brush and saw and spade.
I'd buy that place and fix it up
the way it used to be
And I'd find some people who wanted a home
and give it to them free.
By the end of 1980, I left the town where I was "bread and buttered," not for the nearest city, but for one far away. Destiny led me on a very different path from the other three siblings, as I left the city I knew, the town outside of that city, and the house we lived in, for another city. I would return once or twice a year. It seems foolish to imagine it now, but I honestly expected things to stay just as they were when I left. Life doesn't work that way, and those we leave behind are no exception. Our parents get older, our siblings move on, our friends drift away, or we make new ones upon returning. After my marriage fell apart in 1990, I would return more often. I went from annual visits to coming home three or four times a year. Making a social life of my own in Washington proved a challenge, as I found the city to be brimming with self-important people who couldn't give you the time of day without checking their schedules. Cincinnati gave me solace, an escape, the illusion that all would be well without much suffering. I would arrive at the house, and within an hour, the phone would ring, and Mom would hear a woman's voice. It was for me. It always was. I went dancing, to parties, to nightclubs. I made new friends introduced to me by old ones. It went on and on.
At the 1990s came to a close, it was clear that the house we lived in would not accommodate a man becoming increasingly disabled. Getting through the hallways on a wheelchair, going to the bathroom, taking a shower, all proved more difficult. Mom and Dad considered their options, including moving to another house that was better equipped. The chapter that was ours on Winnebago Drive would have come to an end, but not for the decision to subject the house to an extensive renovation. While they moved to a two-bedroom apartment nearby, the kitchen, dining, and back patio areas were completely transformed. A master bedroom with a wheelchair-accessible full bathroom were added. In the process, Mom got the dream kitchen she never imagined she could ever have. The wall that separated one of the bedrooms from the living room was torn down, making way for a larger "great room" which combined a living and formal dining area. After more than a year, and repeated delays, Mom and Dad moved back in.
All was reasonably well for a few years, until January of 2001, when Mom woke up one morning and had a minor stroke. As she was in the hospital, however briefly, the four of us considered what was once an unlikely possibility, that Mom could meet her demise before Dad. Being independent, and having Mom take care of Dad at home, even with some assistance from the family, was beginning to take its toll.
It was then that my own relationship with the house changed. I was coming less often. After more than twenty years away, I was finally making a life for myself back east. It was just as well. Even if I were to stay at the unaffected end of the house, with my own bed and bathroom, it was nonetheless considered likely that I would be in the way. I could no longer stay at the house we lived in. In fact, if I came to visit, I had to call ahead.
Yes, you read it right. I had to call ahead to visit my own parents.
Now, a new house standing empty,
with staring window and door,
Looks idle, perhaps, and foolish,
like a hat on its block in the store.
But there's nothing mournful about it;
it cannot be sad and lone
For the lack of something within it
that it has never known.
That took a while to sink in. My siblings were very matter-of-fact about it, of course. They lived with it every day, and could not understand how one of their own who did not, would react any differently. It's one of those things that, if you have to explain it, you can't, so I didn't. But in fairness, one or the other did open their home to me whenever I was there. Meanwhile, as a geriatric nurse, Mary could advise them on their care, and accompany them to the doctor. Steve had charge of their financial and other affairs, and eventually took over the upkeep of the house, with the assistance of the grandsons. Pat had a very promising career as an administrative assistant to the general manager of a regional transit authority, when she was discovered to have a rare form of cancer, one that only four doctors in the entire country could treat. Fortunately, one of them was in Cincinnati, and she beat the odds. But it was the catalyst for considerable soul searching, and with her husband as a successful sales representative, she gave up a career to look after Mom and Dad. At first, she would come in the morning a couple of times a week to help Mom with Dad's "activities of daily living." As the years went on, she was driving across town at least five times a week. Dad's slow deterioration was being joined by Mom's, as both were slowly falling apart, each in their own way.
Then in September of 2011, it happened. Mom started down the basement stairs, lost her balance, and fell to the bottom. Bleeding from a cut to the head, and a broken neck, she crawled up the stairs to the telephone and dialed 911, while Dad sat helpless in his Lazy-boy. She was taken to the hospital, and into intensive care, while Dad was looked after full time. Mom had to go into rehabilitation, and the family could not care for both in separate locations. A retirement community with a skilled nursing wing was found north of the city, and Mom and Dad were together again. But in the year prior to the accident, it was clear that the current arrangement was coming apart at the seams. Steve would "pop in" every evening after work, and qualified in-home care was difficult to find, and even more difficult to oversee, especially with a woman more accustomed by this time to giving orders than in taking them.
The long goodbye for our father was also coming to a head. I would be in Washington for three weeks, and hurry home for one. I stayed alone in the house we lived in. I awoke at 6 in the morning, went to gym for an hour, and occasionally visited friends. But social calls were few and far between. Most of the time, I was visiting with family. I would go to Skyline Chili for the occasional dose of "comfort food," and the fellowship among strangers that I forgot how much I missed. Old neighbors, old classmates living nearby, all provided a revisiting with my past, a time that time forgot. I would retire at nearly midnight listening to Chopin's Nocturnes, only to be up again six hours later to the sounds of Mozart.
I was also busy making preparations for a funeral Mass. I knew what Dad would have wanted, and I knew how to bring my influence to bear in getting it. Thankfully, the parish was very accommodating to our wishes. Guidelines from the parish were reviewed by the family, and an assessment was presented to the siblings as part of the proposal. In the end, as with everything, there was consensus.
But a house that has done what a house should do,
a house that has sheltered life,
That has put its loving wooden arms
around a man and his wife,
A house that has echoed a baby's laugh
and held up his stumbling feet,
Is the saddest sight, when it's left alone,
that ever your eyes could meet.
Then, in February, the call came from Steve. Dad was leaving sooner rather than later, and how quickly could I get there? Twenty-four hours, I told him. I arrived on a Tuesday. By Friday evening, Dad stopped taking water. By the evening of Monday, I got the call at the house; it was time. As all were present, and Dad was taking his last desperate breaths, I laid my hand on his forehead, and said the ancient commendation for the dying, the Proficiscere: “Go forth, O Christian soul, out of this world, in the Name of God the Father almighty, Who created you; in the Name of Jesus Christ, the Son of the living God, Who suffered for you; in the Name of the Holy Ghost, Who sanctified you, in the name of the holy and glorious Mary, Virgin and Mother of God; in the name of the angels, archangels, thrones and dominions, cherubim and seraphim; in the name of the patriarchs and prophets, of the holy apostles and evangelists, of the holy martyrs, confessors, monks and hermits, of the holy virgins, and of all the saints of God; may your place be this day in peace, and your abode in Holy Sion ...” There was no movement for a few minutes. I checked his pulse. While waiting for the nurse to confirm what we all knew, I continued: “Subvenite, Sancti Dei, occurrite, Angeli Domini, Suscipientes animan ejus ...”
We could not keep Mom in the house we lived in. No amount of live-in home care would endure her cantankerous nature, and the charge over her own domain. The day after Dad was laid to rest, we moved Mom from the skilled nursing wing into her new one-bedroom apartment on the other side of the complex. She cried when she walked in, seeing the furniture in what seemed as a transplanting of her own abode to another, more accessible place. There were activities during the day, three meals prepared in the dining room, and Mass on Saturday night. Pat or another family member visited her every day. As the months went by, and she awoke "with the chickens" to do her crossword puzzles in the morning paper as she had done for years, she became accustomed to her new surroundings. The question then became, what to do with the house we lived in.
In the wake of Dad's passing, friends and neighbors had come to call. One of them was the man whom we once knew in childhood as "Beanie," the preacher's son, whose father lived next door. His mother had passed away only recently, and his father was getting on in years. For the young man and his wife to live in the same house with him was becoming a challenge. As I gave them a tour of the house, especially the addition in the back, their interest was piqued. And now, several months later, they approached Steve with a proposal.
I would come to stay at the house when I was there; for Father's Day, for the sixtieth wedding anniversary in June, for Mom's first Christmas without Dad. Eventually the cable television was disconnected, and so was the wireless connection. I had to bring the latter on my own, in the form of my iPhone. There was nearly sixty years worth of memories to go through over the past year, nestled in the many corners of the house we lived in. Mom was an incurable packrat, the destination of first and last resort for any school or Scouting project. Everything was meticulously organized, to the point that belied just how much of it there really was. I have to give credit to Steve; for a guy very much "in charge" of things, he managed the process with remarkable collegiality. With a complete inventory of furniture, books, personal records, photographs, and the like, there was consensus all around, and a desire that each of us achieve our satisfaction without the expense of another.
Among other things, I got the silverware, and my paternal grandmother's old clock, now being restored to its former glory.
So whenever I go to Suffern
along the Erie track
I never go by the empty house
without stopping and looking back,
Yet it hurts me to look at the crumbling roof
and the shutters fallen apart,
For I can't help thinking the poor old house
is a house with a broken heart.
There were three visits to Milford in as many months; three round trips of a thousand miles each, as if to say in stages the long goodbye to the town I left behind so many years ago, but which never left me. I drive through its streets, I visit the places I frequented. My conscious mind sees them as they are now. And yet, there is a land of shadows, one in which I see them as I did growing up. Each house cannot be remembered by who lives there now, but who lived there then. It could never belong to those of the present, not in this place that I visit, a place ever present, but never to be seen again.
It was late last month, on a Saturday morning, that I gathered what I could into my 2005 Scion XB, and prepared for the nine-hour journey back to what was now the only home I could call by that name. On this date, after nearly fifty-seven years, with the deal having been signed, sealed, and delivered, the house we lived in at 29 Winnebago Drive is now the home of the Reverend Daryl Poe, pastor of New Harmony Baptist Church, and his devoted wife Jacqueline. Daryl had a long and distinguished career in law enforcement, moving from one assignment to another across the Buckeye State over the years -- a police department here, a sheriff's department there -- before answering the call to follow in his father's footsteps. And so, those who are of the Southern Baptist tradition have a new home, as does the man who serves them. But however beloved it was by those who did so before, however much it is by those who do so now, it is, at the end of the day, not really a home to either.
No, there is another ...
“Let not your hearts be troubled; believe in God, believe also in me. In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you? And when I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again and will take you to myself, that where I am you may be also.” (John 14:1-3)
Life goes on, at the house we lived in.
“The House with Nobody in It” was originally published in Trees and Other Poems, a collection of Joyce Kilmer, by the George H Doran Company, New York City, in 1914.
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Robert Heron Borkdied last Wednesday morning at the age of 85, of complications from heart disease. Judge Bork was one of the preeminent jurists of our time, holding to the interpretation of the Constitution according to the intent of those who wrote it, on the presupposition that they actually meant what they wrote at the time. One might expect no less of anyone with a measure of integrity, to say what they mean, and to mean what they say, even in our time.
There have been many tributes written to honor the man. There will be more in the days ahead. This may well be among the least of them, in the mere shadow of those who knew him better. Be that as it may ...
In 1973, when President Nixon ordered the firing of Special Prosecutor Archibald Cox during the Watergate investigation, the Attorney General resigned after refusing to carry out the order, followed by the Deputy Attorney General. This left Bork, then Solicitor General, in the position of Acting Attorney General, and who proceed to follow through on the order, in what became known as the “Saturday Night Massacre.” In 1987, when President Reagan nominated Bork to the United States Supreme Court, the Democrats in Congress launched into a severity of scrutiny into his legal opinions, and assaults on his personal character, unprecedented for a President's selection to the High Court. His nomination was defeated by a record margin. A new term was introduced to the political vocabulary, as such character assassination in the public realm was thereafter known as being “borked.” And yet, his role as an architect of the "originalist" school of constitutional law inspired peers and protegés alike, and in concert with his grace and tenacity under fire, he won a new generation of admirers.
VIDEO: A tribute to Judge Bork produced by The Federalist Society in April of 2011.
I never really knew the judge, but I did know his second wife, the former Mary Ellen Pohl. (His first wife, the former Claire Davidson, died of cancer in 1980.) Mary Ellen is an accomplished teacher and lecturer on issues concerning the Gospel of Life in her own right, and I was a student in a Theology of the Body class she conducted in 2004. A pleasant and most graceful woman, she was the perfect complement for the irascible former Marine. In over thirty years of living in Washington, I wasn't always at ease in a room full of public figures, which can be a liability on occasion in the Nation's capital. I had only met him once, at a lecture about seven or eight years ago. As I was introduced to the judge by his wife, I said the first stupid thing that came to my head: “It's nice to meet you, sir. I've heard so much about you.” He looked up at me out of the corner of his eye with suspicion and growled: “WHERE???” I was a bit taken aback: “Well, um, I read the papers and, um, I may have come across your name once … or twice.” Thankfully, Mary Ellen was the wiser of us, and gently nudged him to move on.
The story came back to me yesterday, as a Mass of Christian Burial was celebrated for his repose, at the Church of Saint John the Beloved in McLean, Virginia. In attendance were six members of the United States Supreme Court, several prominent members of Congress, and numerous political pundits, syndicated columnists, former law clerks, family, friends, and admirers. After he was laid to rest with military honors, and a volley fired by his fellow Marines, a repast was held at the Bork residence.
Shortly after my arrival, a distinguished gentleman confined to a walker required assistance getting a cup of tea, and so I obliged him. Upon sitting at the table with several other gentlemen, all of whom knew the judge quite well, it came into conversation that this gentleman was a professor at Ave Maria University. My interest was piqued.
“So, what do you teach, sir?”
“Whatever I damn well please.”
“Well, then, what is it that damn well pleases you these days?”
“Catholic social doctrine.”
PHOTO: Courtesy of Rev Vincent Fitzpatrick, retired prolife anarchist, now a priest of the Diocese of Fargo.
Then followed a discussion of this subject, on to the so-called "Catholic vote" among Latinos, and then to the Theology of the Body. After about fifteen minutes, someone comes along and introduces him by name to someone else. I had been engaging none other than Michael Novak, the eminent Catholic philosopher, journalist, novelist, and diplomat, with whose work I had been familiar for many years. And so, with the professor and other distinguished gentlemen, we sipped martinis and spoke of our encounters with the judge. It came as no surprise, then, that they were sufficiently amused with my own first encounter.
There were so many others in attendance to remember the passing of an old friend, men and women who may or may not have been public figures, but who were nonetheless accomplished, and whose stories held my rapt attention. I was at the residence for over an hour, and it went by all too quickly.
When I would see him at St John's with Mary Ellen, you could tell he was fading. There were occasions in the final years when he actually gave interviews, even then refusing to mince words when it came to certain parties by name, but these were welcome respites from the continued failure of his health. His devoted wife cared for him at home for the last several years. Knowing of how my own mother spent half her married life caring for my father, a man slowing wasting away with multiple sclerosis, I knew that no man could be loved more by any woman than Mary Ellen loved Robert. “Behind every great man ...”
There are times when we only get to know a man by the company he keeps. And so, I left that house knowing, not only the measure of the man, but what it was to be in such good company. This is how I will remember the man I barely knew. Whatever injustices were meted out to Robert Bork in this life, his case proceeds forthwith to the Highest Court, and the most Just Judge.
May justice and mercy prevail in Robert's favor, and he may enter into Eternal Life.
(In the lexicon of social media, the aforementioned acronym means “It's The End Of The World As We Know It.” So, now that we're all on the same page ...)
If the world were to end just as this is published, at nine in the morning on the North American east coast, it would probably have already happened in most of the world. In the Philippines, for example, it is now ten in the evening. At the International Date Line, it is two o'clock the following morning. Conversely, had it begun at the International Date Line, it would have been seven o'clock on the East Coast -- the previous morning. Maybe I would have received one last text message from Sal, a fond farewell from the other side of the planet. Maybe my correspondents from Quezon City would have sent something other than “Lahat ay magiging maayos” (“All will be well”) earlier today. So then, we're in the clear -- for the moment.
The prospect of the world ending, and doing so unpleasantly, has been a pop culture obsession for over a decade now, from apocalyptic aftermath to zombie invasion. As to the calendar running out of days, C G P Grey has given us a perfectly good explanation as to why even the present-day Mayans concede to their ancestors having made no such prediction. And even if they had, we know better, don't we?
Of that day and hour no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, nor the Son, but the Father only.
As were the days of Noah, so will be the coming of the Son of man.
For as in those days before the flood they were eating and drinking, marrying and giving in marriage, until the day when Noah entered the ark,
and they did not know until the flood came and swept them all away, so will be the coming of the Son of man.
Then two men will be in the field; one is taken and one is left.
Two women will be grinding at the mill; one is taken and one is left.
Watch therefore, for you do not know on what day your Lord is coming.
But know this, that if the householder had known in what part of the night the thief was coming, he would have watched and would not have let his house be broken into.
Therefore you also must be ready; for the Son of man is coming at an hour you do not expect.
(Matthew 24:36-44)
As we contemplate this scene in our final video, from the ending of the 2011 film Melancholia, consider how the Catholic tradition marks three o'clock in the afternoon as "the hour of mercy." It is then that I will go off to a quiet place away from the office, to pray all fifteen decades of the Rosary.
As part of our remembrance of the month of November, as that which Catholics associate with intentions of the dead and the Life Beyond, we devote this piece to the preparation of the dying. Catholics in the health care professions, particularly those devoted to home and hospice care, may have a unique opportunity to bring their commission through Baptism to the fore. But it is no less so to friends and family of those who prepare for the Inevitable. Here at “Chez Alexandre” we have a silver troika, consisting of a crucifix between two candlesticks. When a patient under Sal's care has passed away, we have been known to recite the Psalms together while the crucifix with lit candles is on the table before us. We have found the so-called "penitential psalms" also known as the "psalms of confession" to be quite suitable. They are: Psalms 6, 31(32), 37(38), 50(51), 101(102), 129(130), and 142(143). (NOTE: The numbering system from the Latin Vulgata is given preference here. Most modern usage employs the Greek, or Septuagint numbering, which appears here in parenthesis.) Of these, Psalm 50(51), the Miserere is the most appropriate:
Every Catholic home should have a "sick call set" handy, for the use of the priest or deacon who visits the sick or dying. It consists of a crucifix and two candles on a white tablecloth by the bedside, along with a vial of holy water, and a dish of regular water with a small white cloth for ablutions. The use of the palm from Palm Sunday, and a bell to announce the presence of the Blessed Sacrament, is optional. It has become common to have such a set self-contained in a wall crucifix, the top portion of which can be detached, to access the accessories contained in the base. (See image at left.)
The priest who comes to the door with the Sacrament does so in silence, and should be greeted by a person carrying a lighted candle. He will say, "Pax huic dómui."("Peace be unto this house.") The greeter should respond, "Et ómnibus habitántibus in ea."("And all who dwell therein.") The cleric is led to the room in silence. All genuflect or kneel in the presence of the Sacrament. In the event that the patient needs to confess his sins, all must leave the room, including the primary caregiver. A priest is trained to know when other assistance is needed. In the event that the patient lacks capacity to confess, a general absolution may be given. If a priest or deacon is unavailable, the faithful are nonetheless able to help prepare a soul for the journey. A page devoted to this is found at Fisheaters.com. A prominent feature to this guide is the prayer known by its beginning word in Latin: Proficiscere.
Of course, circumstances may dictate the length or brevity of such preparations. The communal praying of the Rosary, particularly the use of the Sorrowful Mysteries, is most commendable whatever the circumstances. Once the soul has passed on, a different set of prayers is appropriate. As the time before death is devoted to preparation, that which follows requires intercession from on high. One most appropriate form is the Responsorium, the Responsory for the Dead:
Our series continues next week, with a reflection on Catholic funerals, and the practices associated with them.
[As this month is when Catholics traditionally contemplate the "Last Things" -- death, judgment, heaven, hell -- we choose this opportunity to reprint an article from November of 2009. -- DLA] .
The second day of the month is traditionally known as All Souls Day in the western Church. In Latin America and other former Spanish colonies, it is also known as "dia de los muertos" (day of the dead). But since the celebration usually would have begun on the eve of All Saints Day (All Hallows' Eve, or Halloween), it is often referred to in the plural. In former Hispanic territories such as the Philippines, Celia's family still goes to the cemetery where their deceased loved ones are buried, not simply to lay flowers, but for a picnic. That sounds rather bizarre to us in the States, unless you consider the mayhem we make out of Halloween. Customs associated with this holiday include building private altars honoring the deceased, using sugar skulls, marigolds, and the favorite foods and beverages of the departed. It is likely that such confections are brought with the family to the graves.
In the month to come, man with black hat will feature other writings on matters of what Catholic teaching refers to as "The Last Things."
