The days ‘dwindle down’ as the song says. Another year is speedily slipping away with all its memories happy and sad. Our memory is such a discriminating bank of data that it happily lets the sad things slowly slip from its cache. We more easily remember those happy things, but the sad things are still there. One of those inevitable mixed feelings or memories is the loss of one you love. In this year we have suffered two such losses, Barbara and Eleanore. We in faith rejoice that their pain is over and they are with the Lord, but still miss them and the joy they brought to our lives. Eleanore, or at one time Sister Richard Marie, IHM, spent about 65 years plus in serving God by serving others. As some wag said, “If she didn’t make it to heaven we ain’t got a chance!” Her life of service was seemingly always filled with smiles and laughter. As I saw her lying there on the bier being kissed and touched goodbye by all the many sisters, friends, and relatives, I missed that smile. How she would have giggled and smiled at all this fuss over her! Her simplicity covered a deep and discerning intellect which only a few had the privilege of witnessing. In the vigil service the night before her burial they had a reflection or meditation that was most appropriate. It was on the virtue of meekness, one of the beatitudes. It is one not often talked about in these days of ‘instant satisfaction’ and ‘seeking high self esteem’. It had a verse in which meekness becomes a person, and speaks to the doubting questioner about why it is so valuable. He questioned how it could be considered a ‘blessing’ when on its face it looks like a weakness. Meekness answers, “To be meek is to be so full of truth that everyone is comfortable in your presence. It is to have a spirit young as the dawn and a heart as old as the evening” As I read the words and images coming to me of my memories of “Nellie”, as we called her, did say and see , “that was she!” She would have been a bit perturbed about all these people being here around her were she alive, but she still would not show it. She would just smile and say ‘thank you but your really shouldn’t have….” The words used in the reflection were from “Seasons of Your Heart” by Macrina Wiederkehr. By my visit to her farewell festival I learned another wonderful thing about her. She was a water color painter. They had them all about the room where she was laid.
I had hoped on the next day to obtain some, but sure enough by the next morning all of them were gone. Her many friends and relatives had taken them. I did get one of ‘tulips’ later, which my sister Marge gave me. It was revelation about which she would have never boasted and they were all so beautifully done they were worth bragging about. The trip north had many happy moments. The chance to help my grandson twins, Alex and Aidan, age 6 and their little brother Odie, age 4 visit the men’s room. I spent a night in Dan and Marge’s home with a visit to their son Paul his wife and family. Another night was spent with my son Tom and his family. I listened and watched as my daughter Suzanne, an attorney, chatted with her cousins Bidi, a doctor, and Frank Allen, a lawyer. I enjoyed Sister Monica, Marge’s youngest and an IHM nun as was Eleanore. She is beautiful as ever and sang even better than I have ever heard. I also met two of her friends, Sisters Patricia and Kelly. It was a strange experience to be meeting nuns named Monica, Patricia, and Kelly when over the years as a student in the classes of these sisters, such names would have seemed out of place. I recall the names always seemed to have the word “Saint” in it like, Sister Saint Arthur, or at least Mary appeared some where in the name. Sister Eleanore for most of her life was known as “Sister Richard Marie”. It was also a nice touch that a “Father Pat” part con-celebrated mass. Sister Eleanore was born next after our Father Pat and they were close buddies all of his life. He died in 1980. A big Sunday breakfast at Tom’s home which included son Paul and a report on his upcoming travels. Then I was off to the plane with grandson Tommy driving and telling me of his plans and hopes for next year at Harvard. It was a pleasure to see so many of the clan, almost all the Allen’s and Lukens’s, most of my own family, some of Joe’s, and Marge’s. Sister’s Rosemary and Mary along with Marge took part in the mass and the singing by Sister Monica Walsh, which will always be a highlight of the ceremony.
The last Thursday in August saw the end of an enterprise. I have been playing the piano during lunches, one week noon, the next one o’clock, at the Fountain Inn, an assisted living home. They are in down town St. Pete’s and surrounded by the South Florida University. This past week or so they sold the building to the University. I learned on arriving on August 28th that they would be moving all the patients, residence, etc out by Tuesday Sept 2. So four years or more of having fun giving some music to those suffering from the ills of age will come to an end. I got some hugs and one lady asked if she could give me a kiss. I agreed. It will leave a gap in my life, which I may fill in the same manner somewhere else, or with some other equally enjoyable tasks. I still play at a nursing home within walking distance of our home on the first and third Tuesdays of each month. I will always remember the Fountain Inn for most appreciative audiences for my limited talents. I recall an incident, which I recorded here sometime ago, about “plinkety plink”. The guy who called me that was one that would neither accept my hand nor tell me his name. He always commented on my arrival as he sat there waiting for the lunch to be served, “Here comes Plinkety Plink!” I would agree with him. I found that he complained about almost everything and shocked me one day by asking me if I knew “Have You Ever Been Lonely?” I got it out and played it, and he started to sing along! I made it a point every time that he was there for lunch to play it. I missed him a couple of weeks and then asked about him to sadly learn he was hospitalized and later I was told he died. I did learn his name but even now forget it since he will always be to me the complaining ‘plinkety plink’ guy that somehow let me give him a bit of joy one day. The song was very appropriate for him since he was a “lonely” guy as many noted after his leaving. So we move on and looking back to find with a bit of surprise that come September 24th we will have been in this home six years. We’ve noted previously there are times when it feels as if we’ve never been anywhere else. The beauty of sky, the occasional rainbows (one time three at once) and the water every where we drive or walk through this valley of green, keeps reminding us of how lucky we are. The years of being surrounded by rows of homes on busy streets is happily given up. It is just the people who occupied them that we sometimes miss. The wonder is still with us. June often comments “I can’t believe this is our home”. When we lived in the city we took those trips away just to get this kind of environment, but now we are on seemingly an endless vacation. Admittedly there is always the threat of a hurricane or too much rain, but on most days they seem far removed from this green paradise.
In an essay I read the writer lamented the death of the Latin Mass. It stirred some memories for me of “introibo ad altare deo…I will go to (or enter) the altar of God.” These words are beginning of the mass in Latin. The essay was in AARP Magazine of Sept-Oct; just it being there attracted my attention. The writer laments the death of the Latin mass since he misses the mumbo-jumbo that gave the ritual its mystery and magic. I remember my years of memorizing the responses in Latin, which at that time was clearly “mumbo jumbo” to me. I recall reading in “Angela Ashes” how Frank McCourt was driven by his father to go and learn to be an altar boy. He never made it due to the Latin part. I later had six years of the language. Now most of that is also just a “memoria”. I am sure that the discipline of memorizing what was gibberish had it effect in helping the discipline of learning how to learn. But it was not my thinking at that time! It had grandeur to it though. You were the people. The priest intoned and you responded. It was like playing a part in a play. There were vestments, there was a script, and there certain actions and places you had to be at certain times in the performance. The only difference was your back was to your audience. It also got you up early and interfered with the beginnings of your holidays. Latin by the way was the language I heard on being roused from sleep. My father would rap on the door and say aloud, “Benedicamus Deo!” (Let us bless the Lord!) to which your were expected to respond, “Deo Gratias” (Thanks be to God). Of all the Latin masses the one I loved the best was the High Mass. It had music. A choir and booming organ dueling with each other over the nave in a musical language. It was comparable to an Italian opera. This was even more magnified in an ordination Mass. It had a bishop and con-celebrants and all those to be ordained joining in the service. It was always held in a Cathedral or a church to match a cathedral. Like opera even when you can’t understand the words the music it is still enthralling. I agree with the essay writer’s thought “..the Mass always gave me morning shot of poetry and drama before the drudgery of school..” I can’t say exactly when that occurred for me but it sounds like it should have. “Ita Missa Est”, the word for the Mass is finished and so will these ramblings until the Lord gives me another opportunity to send them onto you again. Pax Tecum!