March Jottings (FRANK)
My brother, Dick, has asked me to record my memories of our brother, Frank. He was the “first born”, the eldest of the clan, being born in 1913, on August 25th of that year. He died on March 19, 1970. Ten years after his birth, on the same day, the world saw our brother, John, come to light. Frank, being number one, was the “apple” of his father’s eye, but from what’s been reported, he managed to stir up enough trouble to sour the apple on occasion.
He entered the seminary at St. Charles in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia to become a secular priest. For the uninitiated, a “secular” priest is the original parish priest, or as some are want to say, the “real” priest, i.e., those following the footsteps of Jesus and the apostles. Not one of Jesus’ later organizers, like St. Augustine, St. Benedict, St. Francis or St. Ignatius of Loyola, who gave us Augustinians, Benedictines, Franciscans and Jesuits. However, Frank and the secular priest organization separated after one year. His scholarship may have had something to do with it, but since he later was to become a Bishop in the same church, it was not alluded to very often.
He left St. Charles and then entered the Order of the Oblates of Mary Immaculate (OMI), a missionary order, with a mission to save the poor. It was later noted at his installation celebration as a Bishop in 1958 that the road to being a Bishop was: flunk out of St. Charles and then join a remote and little known missionary order and serve somewhere halfway around the world to insure it. Be that as it may, his changing of fields was at first suspected by the patriarch to be just one more in a long line of such and he, Dad, allegedly held his breath until Frank was ordained in 1939. He expected him, according to the reports, to be coming home any day now to try something else.
Of course, not being around until 1929 I base all this on hearsay. When I was born, or shortly thereafter, is when Frank left to become a novice in the Oblates in Tewksbury, MA. I vaguely remember driving somewhere to visit him. It was probably DC, where he was ordained in the new Immaculate Conception National Shrine in 1939, where he was later to celebrate an Easter Mass on TV in 1958 as a Bishop.
Like Richard after him, being at the end of the line, I only learned of Frank’s early escapades from others. He was number “one” and I was number “thirteen”. He was born in 1913, I in 1929, when he was 16. He graduated from West Catholic High School in 1930. So it is easy to see why I had little contact with him. At age 10 I was an altar boy at his first Mass. He was away those nine years since his graduation from West Catholic. I graduated in 1947 and he returned to the USA in 1948. Even the first Mass is a vague blur, but the pictures confirm I was there. I seem to remember going to DC for the ordination, because we ate in a restaurant I think was called The State, or such. But other than seeing his picture, having his letters read to us, and then him with Richard and John on the front page of the Bulletin in 1945 when they were together in Santo Tomas in Manila, I really did not know my brother until 1948.
From his ordination in 1939 he went to the Philippines to serve as a missionary on the lower island of Cotabato. I recall hearing in his letters of his travels by horseback from one small village or town to another. I recall names like Cotabato, Davao, Kidipawan, etc. Then the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 and next invaded the Philippines, which brought silence and fear of the worst to Mom and Dad. We later learned he was incarcerated by the Japanese and carried with many other Americans and fellow priests, in small boats from the southern end of the island of Cotabato to Manila on Luzon – a thousand mile boat trip. There he was placed in what were called “concentration camps”, “internments”, etc. He was better suited than most to survive this ordeal, due to his robust physical life the years before, on horseback in the heat, travelling around the southern island. He survived so well that upon his release he travelled with the American soldiers to help in the invasion of the lower islands as a Chaplain, or guide, while others, due to health problems, returned to the U.S.A. after their release.
This return trip with the Army enabled him to begin his building of schools in the south. He became the benefactor of the U.S. Army’s surplus – including “Quonset Huts”, buildings made of sheet metal and steel 2x4s that look like warehouses with few windows, but were mansions compared to the structures existing in some of the towns in Cotabato. He began schools and called them all “Notre Dame”, as in Notre Dame of Cotabato, Notre Dame of Kidipawan, etc. He even told a story of some of his students, on hearing the GIs singing the Notre Dame fight song inquire how they had learned “their” song? He allowed that there was another Notre Dame somewhere in Indiana.
He stayed in the country until 1948. He then had an opportunity to come home and visit for some months. He was to return via Rome and I was to go with him. So it wasn’t until I was nearly 19 and at the end of my first year in Junior College (an Oblate Prep Seminary) that I really met my brother, Frank.
I remember us waiting as Dad went to the Railroad Station to pick up Frank. We all went into the kitchen when someone reported, “They pulled into the garage”. (There was a window in the kitchen that looked into the garage). We were all around the large kitchen table as he entered with Dad and began to give hellos and handshakes or hugs to each of us. But at one point he looked across the table at Winifred, who had a man standing next to her. Winifred had married Paul Allen in 1940 in Frank’s absence. So Frank, seeing this gentleman next to Winnie, exclaimed “You must be Paul Allen!?” To which, our brother Joe responded, “Paul Allen, Hell! I’m your brother Joe!” The laughter that followed was loud. It became a treasured family memory. It demonstrated the length and breadth of the McSorley clan. Dad used to say, “The sun never sets on the McSorleys”, with apologies to the wit who originally stated “The sun never sets on the British Empire”. Even today, with Jim in California, Mary in Louisiana and the rest of us here in the East, it is still partially correct. But for years, with someone in the Philippines or South America (Roie and Eleanor) or elsewhere, it was a fact.
The days after Frank’s arrival are a blur. I was to ride with him in July or August up to New England to visit the Oblate Houses in and around Boston. I remember one stop, either at or on the way to Tewksbury. We visited late in the afternoon with a pastor or religious person and may even had had a meal. But thereafter we took off. I learned by several exclamations from my brother that he had anticipated being invited to spend the night. It hadn’t happened and we were apparently not expected at our next stop until the morning, so we drove into the night until we were near our next destination and then pulled over. We retired for the night, he in the front and I in the rear. The country, we were in was just that “country”, so there was no fear of a policeman tapping on the window during our slumber. I awoke to find the sun, up and Frank also. He was off in the undergrowth for his morning ablutions, or such.
We arrived at or about 6 a.m. at the next stop, which I believe was the Noviate at Tewksbury, in time for him to celebrate Mass and be invited to breakfast. I remember Frank commenting that the sleep wasn’t half bad, like sleeping on a moving horse, or lying in some brush on a blanket of some sort by the side of a stream or so-called road, or the earth in the prison of Santo Tomas. The cushions of the car were certainly a luxury by comparison.
I also vaguely remember having a near collision with a cow on that trip. Frank never hesitated to let the road know he was there -and on the country lanes of rural Massachusetts, it was only the Holy Spirit who saved us from not leaving the road on one of its many turns, one of which came up quickly. As we came out of the turn there was a flock of cows moseying across the road. Screech! Then scramble went the heifers in every direction. Fortune was with us, we didn’t, slaughter any beef that day.
I have very little recollection of the ride or rides after the one to New England. I next had the good fortune to be the one chosen to go back with Frank as far as Rome. I had finished one year (Sept. ’47 – June ’48) at the Oblate Preparatory School in Newburgh, NY and was expected to return in the fall, to follow in the footsteps of my brothers. All from Frank down had entered a religious order at its first level at least. John had contemplated a noviate in the Jesuits before leaving to become a Marine. Joe had gone to the Oblate Preparatory School in Buffalo, NY before leaving and returning to graduate from St. Joseph’s College in 1943A, an expedited class to get the bodies out into the service and the war. So my entrance as the seventh son was not surprising. This goal of being a Father of the Church, rather than a Father of children, was looked on benignly by the Patriarch, so much so that he thought a trip to the center of Catholicism, Rome, would seal that end. It was, of course, to be otherwise, but in 1948 it served me well and gave me adventure not often bestowed on 19 year olds in 1948.
We left from Sea Isle City. Dad, and I believe Joe and/or John drove us to New York to board, the Mauritania, a Canard liner. I remember seeing Mother and others, maybe Winnie and Marge, standing on the high porch waving “Bon Voyage”. I even think I saw a tear in the eyes of the big, tough brother, who later admitted he believed he would never see Mother alive again, which turned out to be true. She had been ill that year and, in fact, in May she received her award as the National Catholic Mother of the Year while in Misericordia Hospital. She was to die in November of 1952 after being unconscious for many months.
The drive over is not recorded in my computer, but I do remember being impressed with the size of the ship and standing by the rail, looking several stories down at Dad, and others, as the ship’s horn blasted behind us and the whole thing rumbled and shook. We were drifting away from the pier. Once again I noted a bit of “mist” in the eyes of Frank saying farewell and noting out loud to me that he felt it might be the last farewell to Dad. But that was not to be. The apple of his eye was to return and have glory and praise heaped upon his Dad as a leader of the Church. I remember years later Dad remarking about that second return, how much he matured, (or it might have been the first). I now, years later with sons, know how he felt and find it remarkably surprising – these boys are now men!
The journey across was five days: from New York to Cobh, Ireland and then by train up to Dublin. We stayed outside Dublin in a suburb at a shrine to Mary Immaculate-Oblates, I believe.
As I attempt to recall the events of 40 years ago, I was struck by some words I recently read in a novel by E. L. Doctorow, “The Waterworks”:
“I’m an old man now and I have to acknowledge
That reality slips, like the cogs
In a wheel…
Names, faces, even of those close to you
Become strange, beautifully strange, and
The commonest sight, the street you live on,
Appears to you on one sunny morning as
The monumental intention of men who
Are no longer available to explain it…
Even words have a different sound,
And things you knew you relearn with
Wonder before you realize you knew them
Well enough once to take no notice of
Them. When we’re young we can’t anticipate
That what so matter-of-factly is
There for us in life is just what we’ll
Have to struggle to hold onto as we grow
Older…”
The mind can’t recall the incidents that filled the time on the Atlantic and in Dublin. I recall the trip from Cobh to Liverpool, England, which I reported previously. It was the crossing where Frank and I slept shoulder to shoulder on the floor at the end of a passageway. I was awakened by a door that opened above us and arose to let someone come out to visit the water closet. When she or he returned and I lay down again I reported my esteemed brother’s comment “I thought you’d never get up!”
I do remember visiting several restaurants or pubs in London. There was rationing in effect. You could only spend a certain amount of money on one meal, so in order to satisfy our American appetites, we would have meals in two different places. I suppose these are not memories of my brother as much as memories of this old man whose cogs have slipped a bit.
In that vein I recall another incident in Ireland. We hired a cart and driver to tour from somewhere to Tralee. The cart was of wood, the driver was a gnarled, gnome of a man, and a donkey or ass, or a mule pulled the whole thing. The driver kept chattering all along the bouncing road. The best I could get was that those hills over there, in the direction he waved his arms, had something to do with the Virgin Mary. We finally arrived at Tralee and Frank paid off our “tour guide” driver. It was only then that he queried whether I understood anything he, the driver said. I acknowledged not much except that bit about the hills and the Virgin Mary. He admitted to about the same, which belied his rapt attention to the gentleman as we drove down. He was already showing the signs of a good politician, act as if it’s all perfectly clear and understandable and then ignore it. By the way, the reason we failed to understand our driver was his brogue, it was so thick it completely obliterated the sounds of English.
We had a similar experience on a train ride in France. We were chatting about something as we sat together on one side of the seat in a cabin. We noticed that a young man (younger than I by maybe 3 or 4 years) was watching us intently and seemingly interested in our banter. We stopped talking and he addressed us in a very heavy British accent, asking to excuse him from staring. He wondered where we were from, since he couldn’t quite understand our language. He, we noticed a few minutes later, chatted in French to another passenger. He was on holiday from school and was either going back or coming from it. Frank had learned Visayan dialect and improved his Spanish while the guest of the Emperor of Japan. He often used Latin to converse with priests or clergy. But neither he, nor I, ever felt our Philadelphia-ese was that foreign from the King’s English.
(To be continued… )
The last report of my memories of Frank had some errors. One very egregious one, noted by Family Historian, Win, was the date of Frank’s death. It was November 19, 1970, not March as reported. March was the month that Dad died, March 14, 1972. The other error was that Frank returned in 1947. He was here for Mom and Dad’s 35th wedding anniversary in November 1947 as reported by the First Lady of the McSorleys. What is correct is that it wasn’t until late in the summer of ’48 that Frank and I headed for Europe. The ride to New England was earlier the same summer.
While recalling the events of ’48 I went to some boxes in which I found pictures I took on the trip to Ireland, England and Portugal. The Ireland pictures included several of the cart. They confirmed the “gnarled guide” and that the trip occurred. The London photos reminded me of the trip to Westminster Cathedral and the guided tour, which caused Frank to comment, “They omitted who started the cathedral as a church, i.e., Rome.” We watched the performance of an orchestra in its court, saw the tombs of poets and literati, and then moved on to Big Ben. It was not as impressive as the tower and clock in Munich where human size warriors marched around the top of the tower around the clock. The pictures also reflected the damage done during the London Blitz, blocks on blocks of rubble and partial structures glaring out through the foggy dew.
In Ireland we also had a picture of the Hurling Match, the national finals between Dublin and Wicklow. Wicklow is where I believe the Cosgroves came from, mother’s family. We had what we would call “50 yard” seats directly behind Eammon DaValera, long-time Prime Minster of the Republic. We shook hands with him during one of the breaks. I don’t remember who won, but I’ll never forget the game being started by all standing and singing “Faith of Our Fathers”, which by the way, is a lot easier than the “Star Spangled Banner”.
I must digress from my reminiscing to report that I, Paul, Jr. and Bill celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with a ten mile run on March 11th. I was happy to break 90 minutes and Paul did so by 2 minutes. Bill was an amazing 66 minutes. All had a great time and promise to do it again soon.
On today’ s date, March 14th, my Dad died in 1972. He was laid out in St. Francis de Sales Church on the 17th, wearing a green tie. This was a thing to note, since from 1952 until his death 20 years later, he wore a black tie in memory of Mom’s death. So the green tie was a real exception. I also learned that Winnie had borrowed the tie, from whom I can’t remember, but forgot to return it!
London had some other memories that I can’t get clear. But I remember when it came time to eat; we would go to two places unless we were guests of someone. It had to do with rationing. It was 1948 and the city and empire were attempting to get back into a peacetime economy, but rationing was still a fact. It worked somehow with a limit on the amount you could spend in one establishment. So, in order to get a full meal, we went to two establishments. Strange, but that’s what I remember.
We also met the Beefeater at the Tower of London. One of the Oblate’s fathers was a Beefeater, a guard at the Tower. We ate in their pub and visited the cells of Bishop Fisher and Thomas More. The Beefeater uniform of knee britches, white socks, shoulder pads with ornamental epaulets, bright red uniforms and hats like wedding cakes were something right out of Alice in Wonderland, or the Jack of Diamonds playing card. It was just hard to believe they were “real” people.
Today most Americans only know or recognize a “Beefeater” on the bottle of gin of the same name. I wondered where the name came from. It, of course, means first, someone who eats beef, but at one time the term was applied to the yeomen of the King’s guards who attended him at state banquets and other ceremonial occasions. The English ate a lot of beef; at least I’m sure Henry VIII did, according to American advertisers. Secondly, the term “Beefeaters” was a slang expression of an “Englishman”. How it happened that the Beefeater guards ended up in the Tower as guards, I don’t really know. Maybe they got caught noshing on the King’s beef and got canned. In any event, meeting a costumed character from Alice in Wonderland in person at nineteen years of age, I was properly impressed. We even shot darts in their pub and ate some of their beef.
We flew from London to Lisbon, Portugal, I think. We road up into the mountains in a hired car with a driver who would have scared a NY taxi driver – maybe he became one later. His approach was similar to Frank’s only ten times more aggressive on roads that were built for ox carts. The miracle we were going to visit at Fatima was nothing compared to the miracle of our getting there alive.
We remember Fatima as quiet compared to Lourdes, which we visited later. There was no enormous cathedral or building, but a church of fair size and a village. We even had our pictures taken with the girls’ mother (Jacinta Marie Francisco) in front of her hut. The visionaries were in a convent or at least two of them were, as I remember. I think one might have been deceased in 1948.
Frank was able to arrange for this picture taking through a Spanish priest or counselor to the mother from some companion he had met in his internment (his connections were already worldwide). His speaking Spanish helped also, but not a great deal with the Portuguese.
We left Lisbon by train and rode for some 24 to 28 hours up through Spain, through the Pyrenees, then along the Mediterranean (once thought to be the middle of the earth – Meddi-terra) on the fabled Riviera to Genoa, Italy. We were allowed get off the train in Spain, but couldn’t stay unless we agreed to exchange $400 into pesos, which we had to leave in the country when we left, or purchase merchandise for that amount. Our tour director, Frank, thought it a poor investment and my banker, Dad, made my choices limited to Frank’s advice. (When I arrived in New York alone on the Mauritania some days later, I had a “nickel”, 5 cents. Enough to call home if no one was there to pick me up. No such thing as a credit card existed for us, or even others as far as I know in 1948).
I remember arriving in Genoa around daybreak and we left the train to have Frank celebrate Mass. He had a church already selected and made the arrangements on the spot with a curate. The whole conversation was in Latin. I was able to follow it so it was just above “Latin I”.
It occurred to me that I started these memories to tell of my brother, Frank. It now it seems he’s gotten lost in the itinerary, though I must note that it was he who planned and selected the places and people we visited. So in reporting that I’m reporting something of Frank’s interest.
On the ride up and across the Riviera, I stepped out as the train stopped in Monaco. I can’t recall if Princess Grace was in the palace by then or not, but I wanted to be able to honestly say, “Oh yes, I’ve been to Monaco!” or such at some future soiree.
On the train Frank and I were the only ones in a cabin (?) and we noticed a number of young people standing in the corridor. They seemed to be conversing in French, at least to this student of French (2 years at Junior College). So I attempted to communicate a little. Parle vous? All to no avail. Frank had a bit of knowledge of the language and with his Spanish surmised they were from the Pyrenees area and spoke a mixture of Spanish and French, which neither of us could understand. However, we communicated enough to invite them to come and sit in our booth (cabin?). They did, and not more than five minutes later the conductor was on them scolding them in some language, which they understood, and they had to leave, despite our pleas in Spanish, English and Americanese. The rules are the rules, they pay for steerage, and they don’t get seats. The universal law of travel.
Recently we discovered (or more correctly June did), in the back of a cabinet some tapes. Among them was one dated April 6, 1971 from Father Pat in Germany. It was one sent in response to our tape sometime before. It was a thing for a while; send letters or messages to loved ones by tape. It was a great tool for Patrick who enjoyed conversation (usually by the sea with a glass of Scotch) more than writing. It certainly brought back memories to hear his voice again.
He was a very warm, congenial and caring brother and friend. I never heard him complain. He had his many setbacks, as the best of us, yet they are hard to recall, since he kept most to himself. I do know his studies were extended a year, delaying his ordination. For what reason I never knew, nor did he ever expound on the injustice (or right) of such a delay. He acted like the proverbial duck; it was water off his back.
He enjoyed an occasional mystery or western novel, but could, as he does on the tape, quote GK Chesterton, renowned English essayist and thinker. He unabashedly loved the ocean and its eternal waves. He was a more than adequate swimmer and seemed to communicate with the sea. He seemed able, more than other bachelors I know, to communicate and attract children. I still can see a picture taken in Florida by some of his fans, floating on his back in a pool beside a floating table that had a book and a place for a glass, smiling at the photographer, while toasting him or her with a glass in hand.
His comment on the tape from Chesterton was part of his complimenting, Sue, Tom, Andy, Paul, Bill and Mary (Dan also later) for their messages, entertainment, songs, piano playing and articulation. He believed that if you had any talent, particularly musical, you should show it, even if it fails to be up to your high standards. It is then he refers to GK who says he didn’t agreewith the adage “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well!” He says, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing poorly, if only because it can give joy to some others or as June pointed out today, Nike advertisers use the phrase “Just Do It.”
I recall talking to Pat one time about the fear of dying. He gave me what I will always remember as a great answer. He said it is like opening a door and entering a new room. Just like we came in, we can’t remember what was behind that door we just came through, and it hasn’t been so bad in this room, so let’s look forward to the next one. A good analogy even if it limps a little
These gems from Pat came often. He enjoyed a humorous story and could relate one as well. Whenever I think of Pat he is always smiling, not a grin or a smirk, but a smile that seems to say, “See, God loves you! “. I hope he is still smiling in that new room, since he gave so much happiness in this one.
Before resuming my recollections of the trip of ’48, I have to report another. After listening to Father Pat, I had another happy memory of him as I went about my daily routine. I found myself telling someone to “Enjoy”, one of Father Pat’s constant admonitions. It was good advice then and still is.
Another event that interrupts my return to Rome is the announcement by my favorite politician, Senator Arlen Specter that he is running for the Republican nomination for President. It jars the mind! I suppose I could take satisfaction in being able to state that I once knew a Presidential candidate, but it’s a grim satisfaction.
My knowledge of the character of the candidate behooves me not to crow too loudly since I wouldn’t want too many people I admire and love to learn I was once allegedly a “friend” of Arlen’s. It was in the deep dark past when he was a Democrat and District Attorney, but I’m sure by now he’s even forgotten that. Arlen would’ve run on the “Know Nothing Party” if they had an opening, and it would have been in title a lot closer to how I remember him. His announcement is a sad and sorrowful commentary on the caliber of men who today seek the office once held by people like Tom Jefferson, Abe Lincoln, FDR, Harry Truman, and even, as we now see, Jimmy Carter. Politics makes strange bedfellows and “alleged friends”. I hope he wins the nomination because I think the Democrats could beat him with Fred Flintstone on the ticket!
The ride down from Genoa to the Eternal City was uncomfortable, because my stomach and the food disagreed, so that on arrival I had to recuperate. It meant missing a trip to meet Judge Ed Bradley’s maternal grandmother. My dad and the
Judge’s dad were friends. Ed’s dad was at one time a Congressman. He had in his district a goodly number of Italian immigrants. He surprised them by speaking in their lingo. He had picked up the language while in Italy, I think during WWI, and apparently met and wooed Mrs. Bradley. Following WWII his in-laws were on tough times in the former Axis country, so Ed’s father had sent via Frank some American dollars. All of which I recall and still regret not visiting them somewhere beyond the seven hills that Frank described as scenic and palatial.
I did manage to visit what I recall as LaRoma, or a classy Italian restaurant. I also remember sitting in the dark in the back of a classroom or lecture hall and listening to Frank give a pep talk to some seminarians. As he was delivering it an older gentleman, a seminarian or priest, I never figured out which, came in also at the rear of the room, but did not see me. He was obviously listening and thoroughly enjoying Frank’s remarks, but he was· shocking me with his arm gestures, emotionally given with a “Bravo!” or such. Each time he did he would throw the left arm in the crook of the right arm, which he swung up in the air, while enunciating an expletive! It was an obscene gesture in south Philly, so I was, as you can imagine, shocked to see a “man of the cloth” using such obscenities. Later I was to learn that the gesture in Rome was one of “hooray”, “Way to go”, etc., etc., not as it later degenerated in South Philadelphia. I never see that gesture here without thinking of those moments in Rome when I first saw it used by a priest or seminarian in response to my brother’s exhortations of others.
Ah! Yes Roma! Arrivederci Roma! All I can think of now is what a wag allegedly once said about the city “It’s a great place to visit, except it’s full of Italians”. She must have been the same one who, when it was suggested she visit Ireland said “Oh! Never, it’s cold, damp and full of Catholics”. To which our astute agent responded, “Well, How about hell? It’s hot, dry and full of Protestants!”
We left Rome one day to travel to Castle Gondolfo, the Pope’s Camp David. We were to have a private audience. It consisted of 9 or 10 of us standing in a carpeted long hallway, some 40 or 50 feet from another group up and down the hall on both sides of us. The Pope was Pius XII, a.k.a. Pacelli. I was the last in our row from the direction the Pope was coming. He started to my right, some 8 or 9 people away, including Frank and proceeded to chat with each as they got up from their kisses to take his hand. He came to me, I froze, failing to fall on my knees as protocol would require, and kiss his ring or whatever. I just stuck out my hand as if to say “Shake Buddy!”, which he did with a smile and wished me “gratia”, “pacem” and God be with you. I think I told him my name, and that I was from Philly, but by that time I’m sure he surmised I was another one of those ignorant klutzy Americans.
Frank enjoyed my discomfort but added that it was typical American behavior before Kings and Popes, democracy in the subconscious or such!
I remember visiting a church with a museum like basement where there was a replica or mummy of St. Paul. He was not 5 foot tall, maybe 4’8″. He matched his taken name of “Paulus”, small. I remember the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Square, and the David of Michelangelo. The blur of people and places continue to interfere with my ability to recall details.
I can’t recall the train ride, but I next remember visiting Lourdes, the shrine of Bernadette. I think I remember the candlelight procession or maybe it’s just that I remember the movie, “The Song of Bernadette”. I know I was struck by how commercial the whole enterprise was after the poverty of Fatima.
Frank accompanied me down to Calais and I boarded the Mauritania once again to head for New York. The seasoned sailor got seasick on the way back, and as I noted above arrived in New York Harbor with just a nickel to call for help. None was needed in that Dad and some others were there to greet me.