March is the month of Memories. Today “memories” is out and “memoir” is in. The difference is not only in the spelling but also in the effect. No one writes his memories of this or that; it is his or her memoir. The word carries an aura of being learned though it is just the French word for memory. It reminds me of the difference between “escargot” and snail. The menu would not look as inviting if it offered “Snails” (stuffed or plain), but when it reads “Escargot”, Ah! Now there’s an item worth ordering. It is the same with ‘cul de sac’. You only hear a ‘dead end’ referred to as a ‘cul de sac’ when the properties around it are worth more than three hundred thousand dollars (give or take a thou). But memoirs regardless of what they are called are very popular these days and some have even become best sellers, like, “Angela Ashes” by Frank McCourt.
There are today courses available on how to write your memoir. They are offered here in local community centers. They are popular with “senior” citizens, another euphemism for men and women who are sufficiently chronologically gifted to receive their social security benefits. I have a friend who is over 85 who took one of those courses. On his 85th birthday he presented his family and friends with his Memoir, an autobiography of his life. It was 148 pages long and he also had it on a CD. The pages were 8 ½ by 11 inches and scattered about were pictures. It clearly demonstrated a great deal of work. He told me about attending the classes on writing it. He confirmed what he learned by doing it. As he went through his memories he supported them with historical events obtained from the library and newspapers. He recounted the historic events of the year, or period, and the part he played in them. It was an admirable and Herculean task, but I find it difficult to read. Writing I enjoy has spoiled me. I have had enough of plodded reading in my life. In honor of our friendship I tried to go back and read some. I do find it of interest and then the style wears on me so I quit. I have that same problem with my brother’s memoir of our family. I find I only enjoy plodding for a short time and then only if there is a reasoning sequence that holds me. But I come to some writing like the biography of John Adams, by David McCullough, and there’s no more plodding I sail through it with joy. All of this is by way of explaining I am not disposed to write my memoirs, as some kind and complimentary friends have suggested. I do enjoy reviewing and renewing some of my memories of the past, but not the task of putting them into a book. I suppose what I have written over the past ten years if put together would make a “book”, but I am afraid it would fall into one of those “plodding” kind I referred to above.
One of my memories of the big day in March, St.Patrick’s Day, is the reward given to the first member of the household who got to the piano and played “Wearing of the Green”. I never had a chance since I couldn’t play the piano then even in the manner I play it now. I had the offer to take piano lessons in grade school, as my sisters were doing, but I turned it down. It was because it was offered in tandem with joining the Boy Scouts. It was piano or summer camp. So it was as I recall always a reward won by one of the sisters. I do remember wearing a green tie or something green on my clothes as I was off to school. Later I remember it became the day of alcohol in as many varieties and quantity that was available. That is not one of those things I remember with joy. What I do recall now about St.Patrick is his contribution to the culture of the Western world. Thomas Cahill in his book “How the Irish Saved Civilization” credits the monasteries and abbeys established by him as creating the people responsible during the Dark Ages of preserving the literature of Greece and Rome. Through their painstaking copying of the documents in to Latin and/or their own language we have today those works of Aristotle, Plato, the early historians like Josephus, etc. The translating reminds me of the story recently circulated supposedly about the Pope looking at the original translation of some early Christian document notices a smudge near one of the words. He then hies him self down to the basement (or wherever those originals were kept) and looks it up. He returns and is filled with excitement as he exclaims, “It is celebrate, not celibate!” You can imagine the consternation that caused. But even if it were a reality rather than a story it probably wouldn’t have left the confines of the Roman Curia. I read with interest in Bishop Frank’s (my brother) letters from Vatican II that he forty years ago observed that the Curia, i.e., the Vatican spokesperson, just never admits mistakes past or present. Gary Wills published a whole book on the subject recently entitled, “Papa Sins”. But then whom of us are ready to admit mistakes even in our everyday affairs, so it comes as no surprise that the Curia doesn’t either.
I have a daily calendar on my desk with each day having an Irish verse, or saying or just observations like “This land is a region of dreams and trifles”. It reads on March 17,”The man known as St.Patrick is an historically controversial figure. According to whom you believe, he was one person, three people, or didn’t exist at all. Whatever the truth, he is the patron saint of Ireland.” (Morgan Llywelyn) I wondered if any or even some of those Irishmen who march in New York on his day really care if he is the patron saint or not?
I play the piano on Thursdays, when I am able, at an Assisted Living Place, called “Fountain Inn”. I play at mealtime, one Thursday at the noon meal, and on the other the one o’clock lunch. It is fun and since they are eating I feel they don’t hear all the mistakes, nor really miss the quality of a good piano player. I have been at this place for a couple of years. In addition, I play twice a month at a Nursing home nearby. I like to feel welcomed and love the “Thank-Yous”. On one of my visits a year or so ago at Fountain Inn I got some comments from a gentleman along the lines of “Ohh..here comes plinkedy plink!” or words to that effect. He definitely wasn’t pleased. I tried to later say hello, shake his hand, and get his name all to no avail. He would have none of it. I later learned from others and the Activity Chairperson that he was a perpetual groaner, so I played along with his groans. I would announce when he saw me and started to groan, “Here comes plinkedy plink, after all I gotta practice somewhere!” I even offered him earplugs one time that I found left over from one of my trips to the Via de Christo camp. They give them to you since you are sleeping in a dorm type place in case some of your brothers snore. Our nameless friend refused them. Then one day this month I arrived and the hallway outside the dining room was filled with people engaged in a game. It was a horse race. The hall was the track and the figures were moved with the roll of dices to numbered places. I went around the game and into the dining room. On one side of the entrance is the piano, on the other side are several chairs and a couch against the walls. My buddy groaner was sitting there groaning. This time it was about the game going on in the hallway. I set up my music sheets and started playing. Then I heard some one singing. It was my music critic and he was singing, “Have You Ever Been Lonely”. After I finished the number I was playing he asked me did I know it! I didn’t have the music with me but I promised to bring it next time. I did, and he sang it, and I had the joy of seeing the moaning groaner become a crooner, more or less. It gave me a happy feeling that I had persevered in being nice to him and going along with his groans. But I never would have believed that one-day he would request a song! Nor even more so that he would sing along with his old buddy “plinkedy plink”. It makes going back for the noon lunch at Fountain Inn a lot more pleasant now that he, still of no name, is “singing along”. In this establishment I at least have people moving by me to eat their meal, with walkers, or wheel chairs, or canes, but at Shore Acres the Nursing home they are almost all wheeled in to the big front hall to suffer for a while. I have a standard bad story about the playing there, it is “I never get a standing ovation!” (Speaking of groans!).
The second Saturday in March I attended a luncheon in the nearby community of Dunedin. It was a reunion of West Catholic Alumni who live in the area. It occurs once a year. I first attended in 1999. It has grown in the attendance. It was quite a surprise when I first heard of the event and then it became more of one as I noticed the number grow. This year over 90 people attended and there are such events throughout Florida. They have them scattered about from Jacksonville, to Miami, to Naples, and up to Pensacola. It is a wonder that over 1000 miles from a high school in Philly so many alumni are gathered. This year was on the water in a restaurant called “Bon Apetite” in Dunedin, a community about 25 miles north of here. It is men and women though only one high school remains. It is now a combined boys and girls of some 800 whereas when I graduated there were nearly 3000 in the school. It is a highly diversified school. Fifty one percent are Catholics, and a majority of the balance Christian, and the rest a mixture of religions. The ethnic make up is likewise diverse. The luncheon is not a fundraiser, though the President (use to be Principal) does remind the attendees that the school depends heavily on donations. The hostess-emcee opened her remarks with what might be called a Catholic joke. “What are two things even God doesn’t know? The number of third orders of St. Francis and what’s in the mind of a Jesuit!” It got a fair response. Until next time Pax Vobiscum!