As November, 1993 draws to a close, it brings with it some sad recollections. They were stirred anew by the sadness of November ’93 itself. The deaths of Patrick McSorley and Andrew Breslin, the 22 year old eldest son of Joseph & Trudy ( McSorley) Breslin. Trudy is Joe and Eleanore’s eldest.
The reminder of our own mortality is all the more poignant when the subject is young. The old adage “Only the good die young” comes to mind. It causes all of us to rear-up in our life and note that the importance of so many “things” is suddenly diminished. Life itself is so precious that, like freedom, we often casually overlook it. The death of a young person clamors for our gratitude. It shall have it! I am not a young man, but plan to live today in thankfulness for my health, my wife, my children and grandchildren, my friends and my life.
The grief that such deaths cause is un-consolable. Words to the mourning are like air balloons, or clouds, somewhere in the room. They do not penetrate the being of those so hurt. Time heals all wounds, it is easily bantered, but relating that to a young man’s mother, father, brother or friend is the tinkling of a bell in an empty space.
I find it very difficult, as I’m sure most do, to express sympathy in person without feeling that my words are like the “sounding brass” where a warm embrace is desperately needed. It is the feeling of inadequacy we feel in the presence of the unknown … the awesome power of “life and death”, the alpha and the omega.
I thought, after writing the above philosophical exegesis, wouldn’t it be wonderful if I could think those deep thoughts when someone angers me? It would be so much easier than not to seek vengeance or revenge. But alas, I remain as human as ever, even in my anger, the great lessons of life remain just that “Great Lessons”. November always reminds me of Mom and my brother Frank. These days I keep remembering an incident on our trip to Rome. It was Frank’s return in 1948 to his Philippines. He obtained permission to go by way of Rome. I was granted “permission” to go by my bishop, Dad, who also agreed to pay for it. We went by way of Ireland, England, Portugal (Fatima), Spain, the Riviera, and then down the boot to the “Eternal City”. Our trip from Ireland to England was by an overnight cruise from Cobh to Liverpool. We boarded the ship around dinner time. It was then that I learned we were unable to get a cabin or sleeping arrangements. For Frank, who had just spent some 9 years in the countryside of Cataboto, P.I., and part of the time (the last three years) as a guest of the Emperor of Japan in internment camps, the prospect of sleeping on the floor or elsewhere presented no discomfort. In fact, sometime earlier in the year, while motoring around New England, we spent the night in the car. Frank had expected a gracious host in Tewsbury (as I recall) to invite us to remain the night. The host was not as gracious as Frank had hoped, so we drove off I think to Lowell. However, we were not due there until morning, so we settled down for a long summer’s nap in the Ford. Thus, the possibility of a night on the floor was not looked on with discomfort, at least not to him.
The plan was to close the Pub, then look for an appropriate place to bed down. The pub closed at 10 p.m. The search ended in a hallway. It was a dead end. On either side of the dead end were doors to cabins. The floor, as on most ships, was a 2″ to 4″ baseboard, which also ran under the doors. We laid down on an old cassock. The floor was not covered with a rug. We fit snugly shoulder to shoulder and shoulders to the baseboard when lying on our backs. We had coats as blankets and some roll¬ed material under our heads for pillows -positively plush when compared to the dirt huts of Kidipawan, I’m sure.
Sleep came. I noted the future bishop had no trouble entering the arms of Morpheus, or so it seemed. Then I heard a noise, a click. I peeked with one eye and saw the door above Frank was opening slightly. An eye was peering into the dim hall noting the objects on the floor below the door. The door shut. I started to sleep again. The door opened, another peering, opened a bit more and then shut again. I tried to sleep but the door opened once more, this time fully. The occupant seemed to be calculating how he or she could step out and not step on the bodies. I decided to give him or her a way and I rose. It was a female. She stepped over Frank and proceeded down the hall to what I was to later learn was the WC or water closet. I waited. She returned, stepped over Frank into her cabin and I laid down to resume my rest. Just as I settled in on the floor I heard a muffled voice from my distinguished floor-mate “I thought you’d never get up!” Ah, well Frank and older brothers do have their privileges.
So in this November, some 46 years later I can smile at my brother’s conduct and remember how sometimes he made me happy … but of course, not that night when crossing to Liverpool.
Another November memory will always be my President’s assassination. He was the first (and almost the last) Presidential candidate I actively supported. I even recall standing on a street corner at 52nd & Market speaking to a crowd on the merits of “my” candidate. I was 31 years old and “all was right with the world” or we would make it so! Jack Kennedy and I all those eager associates would work to make it happen. It happened. He was elected and he went to “prepare for a new administration and new baby”.
Then came the disaster of November 22, 1963. I cried and gave up smoking. It seemed the only thing to do to satisfy the gods who had destroyed a large part of my world. Since then some 2000 books have been published exploring all the theories of “who dun it” and “why”. They continue to haunt that memory and make me want to scream “So what! He’s dead, let him rest in peace.”
The NY Times Book Section, on November 21, 1993, reviewed one more book. It was entitled “Case Closed” by Gerald Posner. It’s theme is that Oswald acted alone. The reviewer and author both point out that even though the case he presents is cogent and convincing, people will still ignore it. “They” want to believe there had-to-be a conspiracy, so there is one. The author offers an explanation of this mania, which I find appealing, i.e., “This (the assassination) is viewed as the great unsolved murder mystery of the generation. It is hard for many to swallow the notion that a misguided loser with a $12 rifle could end ‘Camelot'”.
So November, the “ninth” month,ends, The “ninth” is now the eleventh. Some where between Emperor Julius Augustus and Pope Gregory, we picked up January and February to bumph.•:;the .ninth up to the eleventh. It is good that it is followed by the month of Christmas and the feast of the.:0hrist child. Children make one forget their mortality and our symbols of immortality.
See you in the month of joy, December!