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The June Jottings omitted my thanks to all who attend­ed the 65th on June 11th. It was an oversight to be corrected by my warmest thanks to all. I did try to drop a note to some of the attendees, but to those I did not get to, please know that I am very happy that you attended. I had a great time. As usual, with those types of gatherings, you never seem to get enough time to visit long enough with everyone. It also re­minded me of the many family gatherings over the years, vaca­tions, graduations, anniversaries, Christmases, etc. I par­ticularly remember as the years went on that at one such gath­ering I commented, “Where did all the old people come from? This can’t be one of ‘our’ family gatherings! No?” Ah! But yes, it is so that even the McSorleys suffer the dents of “time”.

June had her birthday party at “Two Mile Inn” on the Bay, south of the Wildwoods near Diamond Beach. We had Mary Lou, Tracy, the twins, Paulie and Kelly, all enjoying seafood. June loves King Crab legs and they are in abundance at Two Mile. The guys even devoured a few. We had a table with a view. The “cake” ceremony – a dip of yogurt – was held back at the house, with only one make believe candle (it was really a pretzel stick) adorned the mound of yogurt, but it never deterred Paulie and the others from blowing it out (?), along with singing “Happy Birthday”.

I am an obituary reader. It began as a legal occu­pation to check to see if any of the clients I had written wills for had made them operative. I hold in my office several hundred original Wills culled from 30 years of practice. It seems like a morbid occupation, but it isn’t carried out in that manner.

I remember an associate, who knew I did Estate work and knew I had a brother who was a Bishop. He once inquired after the Pope died ”Did you get the Estate?”. The Wills lead to Estates. The Wills are a lawyer’s annuities -you just need to live long enough to cash in -like annuities. Recently, however, the obit reading has become less professional and more personal. I began to recognize and know the individuals listed, as classmates, associates, friends, friends of friends, etc. I’m reminded of why Pete Hamill decided to write his book “My Drinking Life” – some of those who were in that life were passing away. He probably was an obituary reader, or even writer.

Last week (7/ll) there appeared an obit for Paul L. Senesky, trial lawyer, basketball great at St. Joe’s, and classmate. He was a few years senior to me and I learned from the obit for the first time a survivor of a torpedoed troop ship in World War II. He was a tall, lanky, rangy athlete and star at St. Joe’s. He suffered a bit from the same problem I had, i.e., a famous, successful brother who preceded him – George Senesky.

George was a classmate of my brother, Joe, in the early forties at St. Joe’s. He was an All American basketball player, pro player for the Warriors, and later their coach. But I always remember him as one of the men for whom I proudly gave up my bed. There were some for whom I would rather not have done so, but George Senesky was bragging material the next day at West Catholic – “I gave up my bed to that St. Joe star, George Senesky!” He survives his brother, is now retired in Mahoney City, PA where the family began. So sometimes even morbid memories become happy ones.

We overlooked a bit of celebrity news sometime ago ­– Mary T. was on “Good Morning America”. June, a sometime watcher, was amazed to see her sitting in the background while someone was testifying before a Congressional committee. So I suppose we are not accurate in saying Mary T. was “on” Good Morning America, as she was “seen” on the show, etc. In any event, it is a step up from C-Span. What’s next Mary? “Oprah”?

Mary, I have just the topic for you, thanks to the NY Times magazine for Sunday (7/17) – “Video Incompatibility Syndrome”. I heard you report on the problems you and Ron have in deciding on which movie to rent. Well, the article recognizes it as “…one of those activities that makes or breaks a relationship, like canoeing”. The author, Judith Stone, entitles her tongue in cheek analysis “You say Dumbo, and I say Rambo”. It is a humorous treatment for the over analytical society and does it well. Hopefully, Ron and Mary and their therapist have worked it out. I enjoyed June’s comment when I told her about the article and Mary and Ron’s alleged dilemma – “My problem wasn’t what video – but who’s paying for it!”

Saturday evening (7/16) we travelled to Atlantic City. I was entered in a five mile run on the beach and June decided to try her luck on the slots. We both did well. June won and I finished. The surf was up so the footing on the beach was sloppy and slow in places, in fact, the finish chute was in soft sand so I walked in. I felt comfortable even though the humidity was high. ­

The number of people running was amazing – nearly 1000 in a five-mile run. It was well promoted for the benefit of the Community Center in Atlantic City. The race was in its 17^th year, having been started by a friend, and former owner of the “Knife & Fork Restaurant”, Jim Latz. Jim was there to run. He has overcome prostrate cancer and is now, over a year later, running again. My friend, Mike Bertolini, who is “happy to be above ground and not concerned about how fast he travels over it”, won the over 70 award with a time of 39 minutes! He may not be “concerned” about how fast he “travels over it”, but he sure does it well.

THOUGHT FOR THE MONTH:

“Errors, like straws, upon the surface flow; He who would search for pearls must dive below.” –John Dryden

As the month (July) winds down, we reflect on the “wet” – wet weather that is. The poet may well say “What is so rare as a day in June? Then if ever comes perfect days”. But for July in 1994 it would be “What is so wet as a day in July? When for seventy-five years it’s been so dry!” The area, the East Coast, has seen a new record in rainfall and shuddered even under some tornadoes. It altered some vacation plans – our guests, the Keeleys, had little or no beach time, which was fostered by the unsure weather and the frozen ocean. One more natural pheno­menon to admire or detest. But the silver lining is no water shortage and lots of greenery – small compensation to those with limited vacation time.

The month ends with my running a third five miler. Last week was the annual Avalon Five and I ran out of the money for the first time since 1991. It now ends on the Boardwalk and I had the joy of seeing June waiting at the finish line for the second time this month. The week prior we ran on the beach in Atlantic City and she was also present (that time with her winn­ings from the casino). Today’s run was on the country roads of Marmora, NJ and we were accompanied by our neighbor from Philly, our house guest and fellow runner, Paul Keeley. I feel stronger with each endeavor and am happy to be back “on the road again!”

I have been reading the Bible, The Book of Genesis in the NAB – “New American Bible” (1990). This edition is based on reliable texts translated from the original biblical languages rather than intervening translations such as the Vulgate, or Latin version, of the first century. It’s a collaborative effort of 50 biblical scholars.

The above is reported in the introduction. I am only into the 40^th Chapter in Genesis and am already impressed with the clarity of the language – but also I don’t remember so much sex. The permission for Jacob to lie or have “intercourse” with his slaves and even take another wife; the story of Joseph falsely accused in Egypt of adultery, the story of a chosen one wasting his seed into the ground to avoid conception, the rape of Dinah, etc.

I do recall some of these stories, but not all of them, and not in language as explicit as it is herein. June says it’s because I never had Sunday school, Bible reading or study, which is true. Yet I thought I had had heard or had read from the pulpit most of the Old Testament as part of the Mass. I now believe I was wrong. I’m sure as I go on through the other books I’ll find that it’s even truer.

Reading the book of Genesis reminded me of an incident that occurred in the early 80s. I was taking a course at LaSalle College in Victorian Literature. As you can imagine, I was the oldest member in the class and I’m sure by their standards “ancient”. I also was not there for any credits and need not impress the professor. At one point he was bemoaning and lamenting the fact that so few read what is called “great” literature – his being all Victorian. He then cited an example or two and then asked how many knew what Genesis was. I responded, “Yes!” and I said, “It’s a rock group!” It brought smiles to all – including the professor who apparently had also heard of Genesis – even if it was not the one in the Bible. Now having read it I find it easier reading than some of the great books of the Victorian Age – such as Eliot’s “Marchman”, Hardy’s “Tess of D’Arbeville” and of course, Dickens’ less than stirring stories.

June 11, 1994:

The party took much preparation. June did it all with a bit of help in the food department from friends and relatives. The only thing June couldn’t control was the weather. We needed to hold the party outside with the numbers invited reaching 60 plus. We even had an offer from our good friends and neigh­bors, the Keeleys, to open their pool to our guests. They offered to open the fence that lay between our immediate neighbor, Franco’s yard and theirs. We had prepared and now the weather was the one determining factor. June had suggested that Sunday be a rain date, but come Friday and its gloomy weather report, it looked like Sunday might be worse. So she prayed that the slow moving low-pressure system would stay in the Carolinas a few more hours. And so it did. We later learned that Father Dick had prayed for the opposite, since he couldn’t make it on Saturday, but June’s prayers prevailed!

We had three tent structures. One was a food tent, another a canvas on poles and a sun tent. The rain we did get was slight and we managed to have every one stay dry. We even, thanks to Betty Hopkins, had a cake, which gave the grandchildren a chance to blow out some candles. They, the grandchildren, also helped Pop-Pop unwrap his gifts. Regrettably, it was lots of fun for the kids, but Pop-Pop lost the cards indicating who gave what.

I just finished Peter Hamill’s “A Drinking Life”. A memoir. It entertained. It amused and it said in great prose my thoughts on my life with and in the drinking culture. Pete Hamill is, or was, a columnist for the New York Post and was its Editor-in-Chief at one time, a novelist, journalist, reporter and high school dropout. Twenty years ago he took his last drink. His observations and feelings that fly across the page found me nodding in agreement. He was the son of Irish immigrants living in a poor district in Brooklyn. His father was crippled, he lost a leg playing soccer, a drunk and a typical Irish Catholic father, who was never supposed to let his son see him as anything but a “man”, roughly defined as a macho beer-drinking tough guy who knows his place in society and in bars.

The book came to me as a gift from Bill King. He had promised it to me at Christmas time but another good friend got there first. I had read a review of the book in the New York Times Book Review and was looking forward to reading it, but refrained from purchasing it when Bill told me he was giving me a copy. So it came in June and was devoured in a week.

Hamill’s observation of parochial schools at or about the time I attended and the Church’s deep concern about virginity and masturbation while his father could not find a job hit me right between my “recollections”. He is a good student and wins a scholarship to a Jesuit High School. Even though it means leaving his buddies he goes. He likes Latin, as I did. He likes the English courses and can’t stand geometry –ditto. He ulti­mately leaves under a mutual agreement, which begins with him writing a composition, a novel or short story, using the name of his principal for one of the characters. The character is not a good one. He is murderer. His English teacher gives him an “F” and thinks he is a sophomoric wise guy, and so does the principal who concludes from the story that Mr. Hamill is not happy at Regis, so he’s put on probation and quits at 15, only halfway home. Even at that age he is into the drinking – beer in cardboard containers purchased by the older guys.

I could go on and on, but I think the message is clear. This is a book I wish I had written, and it echoed so many of my sentiments in such a witty, precise way that I can only re­gret I hadn’t, and recommend it to any and all to read. Let me quote just an example. In the introduction,

Peter Hamill says:

“The culture of drink endures because it offers so many rewards: confidence for the shy, clarity for the uncertain, solace for the wounded and lonely and above all, the elusive promise of friendship and love. From almost the beginning of awareness, drinking was a part of my life; there is no way that I could tell the story of drinking without telling the story of my life. Much of the story is wonder­ful. In the snug darkness of saloons, I learned much about being a human and about mastering a craft. I had, as they say, a million laughs. But those good times also caused great moral, physical, or psychological damage to myself and others. Some of that harm was prob­ably permanent. There is little to be done now but take responsibility. No man’s past can be changed; it’s a fact, like red hair.”

The OJ Simpson inundation brought one quick comment I enjoyed from John Malone even before his arrest. He said “Hey, how about OJ! Guess he won’t be running through any more airports!”

The other was a commentator whose name I didn’t get who pointed out that the Prosecutor’s calling OJ an “American Hero” was a gross exaggeration in that at best he was only “an American football hero”. Viva la difference!

June wondered aloud as we were overrun with stories, comments, specials, etc. “What if” this hadn’t happened? What other so-called, monumental event would be the media frenzy? Another “Bobbit” frenzy – media making heroes out of non-entities.

I remember a cartoon drawn around the time of the Bobbit fiasco. It showed the small Courthouse in Virginia. Outside on almost every available space, other than a lane through the street and up to the Courthouse doors, was TV equip­ment, cameras and signs of various stations and networks. A rather lost looking citizen stands below a cameraman perched upon a local Civil War monument. He looks up and says to the cameraman “What’s happening in Sarajevo?” To which the cameraman with a startled look replies “They got a Bobbit like trial there?” – So much for “newsworthy” and what the word encompasses.

June 25, 1994:

Reflecting on the first “run” after my operation a 5K (3.1) race on June 25th. I felt no discomfort associated with the blockage – that strange pain across my shoulders, behind my neck. The only discomfort was the normal fatigue from lack of training at an 8 minute a mile pace. I ran the first mile in just under 8 minutes. Fatigue and oxygen debt required that a little after the 2^nd mile I walk for a few yards to get my rhythms back to my training level. I finished at 28:30 or an average of a little over 9 minutes a mile.

I enjoyed, even more, the usual social activities, the hubbub of the crowd before the run, meeting old friends as they lied to each other about their poor condition (and then pro­ceeded to run better than ever); talking to contemporaries like Mike Bertolini, 71 years of age who is still setting age records. I smiled as he said “I’m just glad to be above ground, without concern as to how fast I move over it!” I also learned who was no longer there and why, like Mike Naples, not quite 50 and now wearing a pace maker, after a virus damaged his heart. Mike was a super over 40 runner; and on and on. It was great to be back!

This was the run attended last year by Mary T., Bill, with June walking with the twins, Tommy and Kelly. It was rem­embered mostly because we had arrived at the starting line one hour before registration time and 2 hours before the run began. For some reason all of them declined to attend this year, stating they were very busy elsewhere, not in fear that Grandpop, a.k.a. Pop-Pop, a.k.a. Husband would roust them from their beauty sleep 2 hours earlier than required.

We close the month of June with a birthday for June. Ah! What is so rare as a day in June! Except maybe a day that made June possible, the rarest of the rare, that day needs cele­brating. So it will be!

I received notice that my verse, “Healing”, submitted some months ago in a verse contest in still in the semi-finals. They also will print it in a book of poetry entitled “The Edge of Twilight”. They want me to approve the proof and, of course, order a book or two for my poetic friends I suppose. The sugges­tion is in adjudication with a decision expected in due time.

Happy Fourth of July! “The secret of happiness is not in doing what one likes, but like what one has to do!”–Barrie

 

May 1, 1994:

The first day of May. Thoughts of May Day, Law Day, and May Processions. It is also my birthday month, along with Marge and others. I was biking down Avalon Boulevard and doing it “no hands” – like a kid and I thought – “65 years of age” ­no way! I never could believe anyone “that old” would be riding a two-wheeler to begin with, much less not using his hands. Such “hot dogs” are for twelve year olds, which is the way I felt while I was doing it – or maybe teens! It is a good sign of how I feel. No way is it “old” -if by that you mean “rocking chair” material. I was never more sure than I am now, that age is a state of mind ­not years. I’m sure we can all think of people with a lot less years than 60 or more who are “old” and others of 80 or more who still come on as young.

The last weekend of April we had an active and wonder­ful time at Hershey, Pa. We were there as a result of Christmas gifts from the McSorleys and Mike and Cindy and Walt & Tracy. We also had a bonus from The Hersey Hotel of one extra night, if we stayed for two nights, so we obliged. We visited the Indian Echo Cavern, toured the town of Hersey and the Chocolate Factory on Saturday and drove to Gettysburg on Sunday. It was active in that we did most of the visiting via shanks-mare and I even got to play 18 holes of golf between tours on Saturday. So it was energetic and “wonderful” -full of wonder in learning about nature in the cavern, millions of years in coming to be and how the town of Hershey and the Hershey School came to exist. It, the school, began as an orphanage for “males only”. The reason for such selection, which seems odd to us, was that female or­phans were more likely to be taken into homes because of their domestic talents-or they could be expected to learn, i.e., become maids. Males, on the other hand, for reasons then con­sidered important, were not thought to be good materials for such tasks. Today the school is co-ed and the students live in homes of about 12 students with foster parents – who, by the way, can have or bring their own children to live there, but those children are not permitted to attend Hershey School.

Another startling fact is that the millions amassed by Milton S. Hershey were, before his death, placed in a Trust Foundation to support this project. Today all of the profits from Hershey Foods, Inc., Hershey Park, etc. are deposited into the Foundation, making the school one of the most highly endowed institutions in the world.

We were also surprised to learn that Hershey Foods, Inc. is the second largest producer in the world of pasta. They own the “San Giorgio” label. So Hershey is more than a candy bar and “Reeses Pieces”.

Earlier in the day we visited “Indian Echo” Caves, just three miles from Hershey on the Swatra Creek. Swatra was the name of the tribe who initially used the caves as cellars and living quarters in the winter.

We had a very enthusiastic guide. His name was Mark and we later learned in speaking with him that he is a college student who is majoring in environmental science, so he is learning while earning. He started from the (under)ground up. We walked through the dark, dripping caverns of some millions of years in age, like we belonged there. The guide advised that there was nothing to fear, including bats, since they were all asleep. He showed us two glued to the ceiling overhead. They were smaller than a fair sized hand, even with their wings spread. It seemed he had no sooner finished with those assurances as we walked into another vaulted room, when there flitted by in the air a fairly large flying object – which – by George! was a”bat”. Despite his apologies, the women, including June, immediately covered their heads.

The large stalagmites and stalactites looked like beige and cream ice cream cones or sand castles built by dripping sand. The difference between stalagmites and stalactites is that one grows down from a roof or ceiling, the other grows up from the floor.

Gettysburg is some 50 miles from Hershey. It is the site of a National Cemetery and one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War. It is most remembered for President Lincoln’s eulogy and has been the subject of thousands of words. As re­cently as 1993 a book was published by Gary Wills, entitled ”Lincoln at Gettysburg”. It was on the history of the speech, how it came to be written and its deliverance at Gettysburg. The book won several awards. It is an interesting insight into the learning of the rail-splitter and his poetic prose. I learned that Lincoln was invited only as a second thought; that the cemetery was the idea of Pennsylvanians, from Governor Curtain down to a lawyer, Mr. Wills (no relation to the author) in Gettysburg; that the main speaker was Senator Everett from Massachusetts who spoke for four hours and that Lincoln had some help, as usual, from his staff, including Secretary Hay, who trimmed and edited with him right down to the train ride from D.C. Lincoln almost didn’t make the dedication on November 19, 1863 due to the trains being used mostly for troop movements. He also stayed in the home of Mr. Wills and traveled alone, without a bodyguard.

His speech will long be remembered and so it is that the dedicated ground is well kept and well visited by Americans year in and year out. It is a pleasant, small town with some ob­vious commercial buildings to handle the tourism, but the country­side is pleasant and rolling Pennsylvanian farmland, now dotted with stone monuments to the dead heroes.

We saw where Pickett charged across an open field for a mile and then up Cemetery Ridge. We could see looking across the field where Seminary Ridge lay – it was so named because along the crest there rested a Lutheran Seminary in July of 1861, and it is still there. We saw where hundreds of young men and boys fell to their deaths – and where the South reached its highest point in the war. It was never to cross the Mason-Dixon line again.

The constant reminder of dead young people was a bit de­pressing, but then the history of man with its wars and death, even today, is just as depressing. We enjoyed the history, especially as spelled out in the little amphitheater where we watched the battles re-enacted on an electric topographical map, listened to a Park Ranger guide point out the different places from which the different units came, and those that waited to meet them, and enjoyed looking down over the landscape from a 368 foot tower that Js octagonal in shape. We walked around on the top and viewed in 360°s the places where the events occurred.

There was also the Cyclorama. It was an oil paint­ing, some 30 to 40 feet in height, painted on a wall in a circle. The painter took months to complete the project with a crew. The show consisted of a trip by a narrator with a spotlight and other lights illuminating the subject of the narration as we traveled over the battlefields. Cycloramas were popular in the 18th century, like the movies of later America.

Gettysburg is a good place to teach history. It cer­tainly made me more aware of the Civil War and the moving words of Lincoln. I’d recommend it as a place to visit in the off-season, i.e., not during the summer, since even in the last weekend in April it was a very busy place.

May 17, 1994:

Fifteen years ago this past weekend (5/14-5/15), we celebrated the joint graduations of Suzanne McSorley and Tom Baker, she from Columbia Law School and he from Columbia University’s Master’s Program. This weekend we celebrated Tom’s ordination as a Deacon, with Suzie joining him in that endeavor, along with their three girls, one of whom, Colleen, is now just two months old.

The celebration in 1979 also had the added attraction of being my 50th birthday celebration. It was done at the Warwick in New York. This time we had a pre-65th birth­day celebration at Sue & Tom’s.

Once again, as in 1979, all the McSorley children were present, and now happily added were their spouses, Lori and Donna and the grandchildren, Tommy, Linda, Matthew, Karen, Kate, Margaret, Colleen and Megan. It gave me the opportunity to thank them all for their support in January and to tell them I loved them.

What I had to say was that I had recently read a book entitled “Embraced by the Light”. It came recommended by Jim and it has been on the New York Times Best Seller list for 54 weeks. It is the story of a woman’s “near death” experience some twenty years ago. But I have “real life” experience everyday, in that I am “Embraced by the Love, the love of my wife, my children, my step-children, my grandchildren, my nieces and nephews, brothers and sisters. It is better than being on any “best” list and it enables me to say “I am a most happy fellah!”

I also noted that we don’t get to choose our children, as we do our friends and associates, but that if I had, I would have picked them all. (They have often noted they didn’t get to pick their parents either!).

After my celebration they sat young Tommy down and sang Happy 10^th to him – his is due on June 1st. He was very much surprised, particularly when his Dad whipped out a poster acknow­ledging the event of the decade and that we, his grandparents, uncles and aunts, Mom and Dad were going to send him to “Space Camp” in Huntsville, Alabama for a week in June. It’s one of the few times I saw Tommy speechless – he really was surprised and overwhelmed.

I also received a lawn trimmer and edger which was gleefully opened by the grandchildren. It is a regular macho-motor machine with lots of horsepower. It brought a number of grunts from the crowd as they imitated Tim Taylor, the toolmaker of the TV show “Home Improvement”.

A thought for the month: “Ideally, couples need three lives: one for him, one for her, and one for them together.” -Bisset

The trip to St. Petersburg began early, 5 a.m. on Thursday, March 24^th. Tracy, Walt, the twins and Paulie came Wed­nesday night to be ready to head south in the A.M. We left around 6am and agreed to meet at the ”Maryland House” on I-95 outside of Baltimore for breakfast. We did so, and then on to rest stop meetings. At one we had to wait for them, at another they were ahead, etc., and so on to our evening rendezvous at the Hampton Inn in Fayetteville, North Carolina. We both arrived around 4pm. Walt and Tracy had had some carsickness episodes, but all were doing as well as could be ex­pected. We had adjacent quarters. After June and I had a walk we dined at “Shoney’s” where quantity is the drawing card and the price is right, i.e., cheap.

We were off the next day, Friday, after a ”free” breakfast at the Inn, leaving again at 6 a.m. We met again for lunch and then stopped for the evening in Ocala, Florida. The weather was so warm that the guys went for a swim in the motel pool. We had a big break­fast and then arrived at our new home for the week in Shore Acres, St. Petersburg. We took Saturday and Sunday to recoup and settle in. Sat­urday we shopped and basked in the warm sun. The temperature was in the 80s and Sunday we took a walk, visiting a new house for sale, but it was so hot we had to slow down on the way home. We later learned that the temperature reached the 90s and that day and Monday set records for the area.

The Shore Acres house is owned by Rich and Shirley McSorley. It is a one story house, called a “rancher” in some places. A drive­way, to an attached garage, on the left; a large bay window and stone patio-porch on the right. Tile roof, newly painted white, glistens with its green trim. The driveway runs about 60 feet and so does the lawn abutting it in front of the porch and house. The house sits on the curve end of a dead end street.

You enter a large living room, but directly ahead is a door on the opposite side of the house – leading to a backyard area. You travel through the living room, pass by the dividing wall, enter the breakfast area, and then out onto another stone slab patio. Directly in front of you, not more than 60 feet away, flows a stream. The grass and greenery go right to the water’s edge. Posted on either side of the rear lot are two large trees. Two more are just a mite farther and closer to the stream. The stream is an inland waterway. Across it are the neighbor’s ranchers, with decks and powerboats. There is usually a slight breeze blowing through the trees. They seem to be willows, since they are draped with a moss like string. The actual species remain at this time unknown.

The area is very quiet, except for the cooing of some doves. Since the house sits on the curve of a dead end street, little or no traffic travels on the street, called “Massachusetts Avenue”.

The view and the quiet of the passing stream, while sitting in chairs on the patio area is worth the 1100 mile drive. I thought of John and his spending his last good days here. It was a good place to be.

It is the morning of the 30th. Everyone is sleeping as I now hear the bells of the Lutheran Church chime 8 a.m. They went to see the Phillies play in Clearwater last night. Arrived home after midnight with no decision. It was the end of the 11th inning and the Phillies and the Orioles were tied 6-6. The evening was cool and they had a 45-minute ride home. Hopefully we’ll learn later who won (no one).

As I scratched away in the above paragraph I heard some noises in the living room. An investigation resulted in finding Paulie playing on the floor. I got a big hug, and then inquired if he needed a change. He agreed, yes! He quietly took me into his Mom and Dad’s room to show me where the diapers were. We then re­turned to the living room where Pop-Pop become a “Dad” once again, changing the little guy’s diaper. Afterwards, we had breakfast to­gether. We then left the house and visited the street, played ball in the garage, chased butterflies down ”Butterfly Lane”, a nearby street, picked a daisy for Mom, but then thought better and decided it should be for Grandmom. In all, we had a delightful hour of just plain enjoying as only a Pop-Pop can. As I often say these days, if I had known what fun being a Pop-Pop was years ago, I’d have skipped the middle part and gone right to being one.

Sean, our 10 year old grandson, expressed concern on Sunday evening about what I was doing or going to do here on vaca­tion. He had already had beach time Saturday and a water park experience on Sunday, but what had I done or what was t going to do? Wasn’t I ”bored”? I explained that I was going with them on Monday to Busch Gardens in Tampa, and invited him to help me with my taxes which I was planning to do on Tuesday. I was also enjoy­ing walks, reading, writing, sleeping, eating end generally enjoy­ing the weather. It all failed to satisfy him, and he, of course, refused my offer to do the taxes with me. He considered such an offer to be “boring plus!”. I thanked him for his concern about my welfare and tried to convince him I was really enjoying my stay, even if to him it appeared “boring”.

On the day Paulie and I had our time together, as we had breakfast, suggested we raise our glasses in a toast to the ”Pauls”. He raised his glass and then looked at me in rather puzzled fashion and said ”I’m Paulie!” Touchez! June said I then should have said ”And I’m Paul Leo!” He was too serious at that time for me to alter in any way his very proper conclusion.

The last day of March is upon us. Pleasant, 70 degrees to­day, with a modest breeze. Ten weeks since I had my insides realigned. June decided the reminder, or reminders, every week should stop. She has no reason to remember that day, since it was not a pleasant one for her in her anxiety and fear. She has a point. We walked in the sun along “Coffee Pot Boulevard”, along the Bay of St. Petersburg. We walked for an hour, stopping to visit the twins, Paul and their Mom and Dad on the beach as we passed. I have slept soundly. Now the ”Hearing is done!”. All I need to do is build upon it, to stren­gthen my body and to get once more on the run. Jogged a bit again this A.M. It feels good to be back ”on the road again”.

Today, Tracy, Walt and the twins are going “para-sailing”. They parachute off the back of a speeding powerboat and soar up as far as the rope will let them. If they should tire and let go, they drop into the bay. They wear life preservers to be sure they don’t sink while being rescued. They returned shortly. The weather was too windy for Dave and Sean’s weight, so Mom and Dad decided to forego until the football players were a bit heftier.

The twins, Paulie, Mom & Dad took off for Cape Canaveral on Friday, very early, so June and I had the house to ourselves. The quiet was a pleasant return. We straightened up the house and then spent the day reading and walking in the very pleasant weather and wonderful environs. Saturday and Sunday we drove back to “snow” country. We did it in 16 hours with appropriate breaks – it was further assurance that the ”Healing is done!”

It’s a Sunday in April. It’s quiet and cloudy as I look out over my backyard. The grass is really green and growing in leaps and bounds. The weather is to be showers, how appropriate for April ­so we’ll have May flowers. We, June and I planted a second lilac bush yesterday. She has pansies to go in the large pots and the box on the railing. God is in heaven, and all is right with the world! At least this world!

Two years ago in these scribblings I recalled that this was ”Boston Marathon Month” and recalled my journey 20 years before from Hopkinton to the John Hancock Building in Boston. Now, two years later, I look forward to funning with new piping, and with just as much enthusiasm. The weather, and seeing people running by, all make my body itch to be “on the road again”. We have walked very hard and jogged a bit, but have not yet really tried any “running” as defined i.e., 8 minutes a mile for more than one.

One week ago today we returned, on Easter Sunday, from Florida. It has been such a busy week we find it difficult to believe it’s only been a “week”. It was a wonderful time in very good weather and makes June believe it’s the place to go come winter every year.

(On reading the above ramblings, they appear more and more as a journal-diary, not quite as I intended when I started with the ”Odyssey” some 2-1/2 years ago, but since I have a captive audience who seem satisfied with these reports, be they “journal” or “diary”, I hope to continue).

The time “fugit’s” on and here we are at the end of April and not off the press. The time has been well spent. Just last weekend we used our Christmas gift from Mike and Cindy and the McSorleys of a trip to the Hershey Hotel. It was delightful and we’ll be reporting on that adventure shortly.

We leave you with a thought for the day (or month) reported to be uttered by Paul Tsonges, the recent Massachusetts Senator who ran for nomination as the Democratic candidate for President: ”No one on his deathbed ever said ‘I wish I’d spent more time at the office'”, I couldn’t agree more!

February will be fabulous if for no other reason than home. I won’t bore you with the report of my operation, but I did note some reflections as I came back to life. The intensity of the experience is difficult to describe. The joy and pain overwhelms one so much that the mind finds no past experiences to use to describe them.

Some of those experiences in my visit to the hospital:

The exhilaration of looking down over my feet and seeing June and 10 of our 11 standing there. Joe, who was absent then, had been there the night before, after the operation, to report to June of my progress. His knowledge, as a paramedic, made it possible for him to intelligently explain to June what was happening and what progress was being made. He also saved her the discomfort of having to look at me for too long a time in my most mordant condition.

The night before the operation I experienced no fear of death, although the risk was there. I attribute it to my eternal optimism, apparently inherited along with the heart disease. The knowledge that brothers Jim and Dick had undergone the same operation at an older age, as well as John MacDonald, June’s brother-in-law, and our good friend and fellow grandpop Jerry Hopkins who had likewise survived the operation, also helped. So the lack of fear had some reason behind it other than my natural optimistic self.

The surprise was being wheeled into the operating room and having someone place a mask over my nose, being asked to breath in and then a voice saying ”Paul, Paul, it’s all over”. The eyes saw a face. It was Joe Golden, then June, then Joe Konrad, whom I was to later learn was a nurse in ICU who knew some of my sons from Cardinal Dougherty High School.

The blues came and went. The hands were fastened to my sides and I tried to lift them causing attendants to issue some soothing requests. I remember some discussion about giving me blood and Joe Konrad pushing for it. June later reported it resulted in a turnaround in my recovery.

The next day, Friday, January 22nd, was the worst day of my life. The pain was universal and pervasive. My mind was never still with admonitions and thoughts that everyone had abandoned me. Nobody loved me! The memory even now, two weeks later, is one of relief that I cannot feel the way I felt then, nor really communicate to others how like in suspension I felt.

The healing must have started, because the next day I was moved to the 17th floor and the ICU unit there. I even had visitors, including Tom, Donna, Tommy & Linda. Linda refused to come near my chair since from my nose ran a tube to a bag – I could see she didn’t like what she saw!
Then there was the visit of the twins and Tracy. June had heard David wanted to see my scar, but upon seeing it, peeking up over my pajama top under my chin, his enthusiasm quickly waned.

The hospital is no place for rest. There was a constant hum of noise and people. One night, a lady in the next ”suite” proceeded to have her TV on quite loud even at 3 a.m. Then there was the continuous monitoring of your vital signs, taking blood, going through respiratory exercises and treatment. The treatment was to inhale through what looked like a gun and then exhaling, causing a billow of fine mist to leave from the end of the gun. June, observing my doing so, wondered if it was ”legal”, since it looked much like smoking a pipe of some illegal substance.

You had a companion in the room who was in various stages of recovery and treatment, who had a TV set, etc. My first companion was an Ed McLaughlin who had spent 3 weeks in Frankford-Torresdale Hospital before it was decided an operation was necessary! He had been operated on two days before me (1/18/94). He needed additional attention because he was a diabetic, so these conditions were not conducive to rest. In addition, the finding of a comfortable position in the medieval torture rack called a hospital bed added to the lack of sleep. However, along with the medication I learned we received a moderate sleeping pill. It apparently was discontinued on Monday night (1/24/94) but I was advised that if I thought I might need one, just to ask for it. One Tuesday night I got a new roommate right from the recovery room, full of tubes and assistants. He, I later learned, had had an angioblast operation. It is administered locally, so he was vocal and full of complaints which added to my not looking forward to any sleep. At 9:30 p.m. I walked down to the nurse’s station and asked about getting a sleeping pill. l had felt I could probably go without it, but expected my roommate would be receiving constant attention all night long and interrupt my rest, so the journey to the station. I was advised that it was too early! I could have one at 10:30 or 11:00 p.m. when I would receive some medication. As I turned to leave I said “Well, .if I’m asleep, don’t wake me to give me the sleeping pill'”. It brought a laugh from some of the nurses and one agreed “It makes sense!”

On my comings and goings in the corridors, l noticed one gentleman with a black silk robe walking and pulling along an i.v. unit. I noticed him on several occasions. I saw him chatting with various other patients and nurses. One day, as June and I were walking down the corridor, he was coming up and commented on my jazzy pjs. June had seen to it that even in the hospital I looked well. I told him she got them at a sale in Wanamakers and noted he did fairly well in the same department, with his silk robe and multicolored hospital pajamas. He said with good humor the robe was from a sale at Wanamakers and that the rest he collected from a room there in the hallway marked “Linen Room”. He said “You just go in and pick out the ones you like!” He certainly was at home.
Sometime later. after June left, he stood in my doorway and started the usual chat “What did you have etc.” We then realized we were both from Fox Chase and.he told me his name “Ed Bradley,” I chided him about his relationship to the past President Judge. Ed Bradley, and he acknowledged he knew him and a number of the Judiciary since he was a disabled police officer. Then I mused that some years ago June and I were walking in Pennypack on the bike path and a bicyclist pulled up behind us and pedalled along with us telling us about his exercising and his recent bypass operation – his name was Ed Bradley. It was the same Ed Bradley, only several pounds heavier. He had been in Hahnemann 3 times in 1993, all heart related. Despite that, his spirit was undiminished and, as he pointed out, being depressed about the matter would only agitate his condition, so he kept smiling and was full of hope.

I am a newspaper person. I get a daily and Sunday paper. Sometimes I’ll read a great deal of the news and commentary, glance at the comics and always do the crossword puzzle. So, during my sojourn in Room 1763 at Hahnemann, imagine my pleasure when on the fifth day of my incarceration, a lady stopped at the door and said “newspapers, magazines, books, etc.!” I started immediately to head for the hall. As I did so, I reached down into my pajamas for some cash. Well, of course, I had no money! I stated this aloud to the salesperson, cart driver, as I headed for the door. Before I could get there she announced, as she quickly rushed the cart away ”No money, can’t help you.” I was quick: to smile, one, that I had even thought about buying something, and two, the incongruity of someone trying to sell something on the cardiac corridor where we were carefully instructed upon entrance to the hospital, to surrender all valuables, including cash, to our spouse or others. One more contradiction of hospital life that gave me a laugh. Incidentally, I did get a paper most days I spent in confinement, thanks to my ever loving, caring June.

Dr-. Goel was the surgeon. It is pronounced “Ghoul”. As June pointed out, not a very dignified name for a heart surgeon, when it conjures an image of a body snatcher. But Dr. Goel is far from ghoulish. He is a handsome Indian with a mellifluous accented, deep voice. He always visited dressed in a business suit, and his chiseled, handsome face had eyes that twinkled with good humor.

We met the night before the surgery. It seems strange that you have such a casual acquaintance with someone who is going to have a very intimate venture with you and your body, but that’s the system. He came for the execution of the release and pointed out that the risks listed on the form included death. I noted that it was tucked away in fourth or fifth place on the form as if there was an attempt to have it hidden. He assured me that was not so, but it was a risk, and then he added, however, success is 98%. I signed on the dotted line. He then asked me what my goals were. I stated ”To run a half marathon in October, 1994. He replied ”You shall do so, and even better!” I was tempted to ask, but didn’t, if I failed to break my personal record at over 60 would he give me my money back?

He visited me sometime after the surgery. He was again dressed in a suit and tie, unlike some of the other surgeons who appeared at bedside still in their surgical gowns and hats. I later learned that this was one of his trademarks, along with being known as ”Magic Fingers” Goel and his good humor around many depressed and depressing people. 1 got a bit: of that humor on his next visit when I was looking forward to leaving around Tuesday. He stopped to say something like “I see you have come up with some irregular heartbeats.” I said “Yes, and the cardiologist decided I best stay another day to monitor it.” Then, said Dr. Goel, with a twinkle in his eyes, “They should expect such irregularity from you, since you are an Irishman!”, or something like that. It brought a smile as he seemed able to do on each visit.

One of the joys of being in the hospital was receiving all the good wishes and visits. I certainly had an abundance of …

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The thoughts about healing brought this verse to mind:

Slowly the body inches back
To do the things it could.
But the mind races ahead
To do the things it would!

Healing is such a slow process
You never seem ahead –
One moment up, another down,
Or is it just in your head?

I look forward to simple things
like a good night sleep
A walk in the sun,
And to the day the healing is done!

So I can get these thoughts to you while February remains, I’ll say goodbye for now.

January 2, 1994:
The end of a year, like the end of many things, brings a melancholy of thoughts of what has passed and a fear of what lies ahead. I had a dramatic example of both of these emotions as the year drew to an end. I lost a friend, Tom Kelly, in an auto accident and I have been ordered to have my cardiac plumbing looked at with a catheter on January 18, 1994.

It seems that genetics, my family history, plays a more important role in the deteriorating of the cardiovascular system than the player himself. I do not regret the hours spent in im¬proving my system, and in fact, I’d do it all again. It gave me, in the parlance of today, a “life”. I don’t mean to put that in the past tense because it is doing very well right now, so I can answer to the imperative “Get a life!”, with “I have”. So much so that I would regret very much leaving it for the unknown alleged eternal glory.

Tom Kelly was a good friend. He was, with his wife, Barbara, the owner of the bar next door to my office, as well as a restaurant in Germantown called the Hathaway Inn. I met Tom some twenty years ago when he was a sheriff under Sheriff Joe Sullivan. Our paths crossed over the years and then came together some 6 or 7 years ago when he became the purchaser of Buddy’s Wagon Wheel (the bar next door) now called “The Chase”.

We both became defendants in a recent lawsuit over the lease for Buddy’s, so we had more opportunities to see some of each other. He was a large Irishman in every sense of the word. He fulfilled the adage “Be they kings or poets or innkeppers, the Irish have great worth, they keep company with the angels and they bring a little bit of heaven to earth.” This was Tom Kelly!

* * * *

January 13, 1994:
We visited Disney World in Orlando, Florida from the 5th to the lOth of January. We being June, myself, June’s sister, Mary, her husband John, their son, David and his girlfriend, Jeanine(?). John and Mary were frequent visitors to the resort so they did the planning. They did an excellent job.

We stayed at the Polynesian Resort in Disney World itself which gave us immediate access to monorail and bus transportation to the entire Kingdom. It is a kingdom. It is a self-governed city two times larger than Manhatten Island and equal to the size of San Francisco. It employs 33,000 people to make fantasy become a reality. It is comprised of some three major theme parks,The Magic Kingdom, Epcot Center and MGM Studio park. It has some 65 sit down restaurants and I wouldn’t even want to estimate the number of hotel rooms. It is a cultural and sensual experience that is not easily outdone. We had the advantage of two exper¬ienced visitors in John and Mary so we were not lost in the enormity of the place or its attractions. We apparently, from all reports, went at a good time since we were in the six days able to cover the three major attractions and some side shopping sites. This usually is not possible due to the crowds. It is a land of children and fantasy. We were entertained constantly by the smiles and behavior of children of all ages. In fact, at one show, in Mickey’s “Starland”, in Magic Kingdom, June and I agreed that we were really out of place without a young one tagging along. I suggested we could open a “Rent-a-Kid” office for grandparents who had to leave their grandchildren at home.

One of the highlights of the trip was to watch June be¬come a thespian as she was selected to play Edna in a Shakes¬pearean spoof of Romeo and Edna played on the street in Merry Olde England. She was outstanding and received an award which unfortunately was retaken when she failed to cry properly.

At one point the narrator looked down at June lying on the ground in the death scene and said “Don’t suppose you thought you would find yourself lying on the ground at Epcot Center today, did you?” June was wearing a “Universal Studio” shirt. It had caused some comments at the breakfast table and as we travelled through the park. “Universal” is a competitor of Disney and was where we visited last March on our return trip from Rich and Shirley’s. It also raised some eyebrows and comments as she stepped out to perform…so they put a hat-veil combination on her that would fall over the damaging words …all in good fun and enjoyed by all!

I sit here on the 17th looking at what is yet an unfinished report on our trip and wondering when I will get back to it… since in the morn I will submit to a catheterization and be in Holy Redeemer for at least a day and a night. I am uncertain what they may find so I thought it best to just let this go as it is …with a promise that I’ll get back as soon as I can.

Just one more bit of news, more for my brothers and sisters than my children…Mary has become engaged to one, Ron Yates. The father of the bride-to-be gave his permission on the phone last Thursday night, January 13th. It, of course, was a courteous gesture that is today hardly remembered. I had just reread some of “The More the Merrier” and happened to note of Dan and Bob’s request to the Patriarch and the responses received. I also responded in a similar manner … almost .. just that I was flattered that he called and we both knew that my permission would not control …since it has not controlled for on to some nigh 11 years or so…my advice was often given but my permission was neither sought nor needed.

I’ll be in touch with the news and report on the wonders of Disney World in the near future.

January 18, 1994:
Catheterization indicates by-pass required. Will have surgery in the next few days. Will keep you posted.

MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS PAST
We are standing in the hall outside the sitting room on the second floor of 4116. It is dark and dim. I’m in line be¬hind Anne and Roey. Behind me are Marge and Therese, and sometimes John and Joe, or Eddie or some others. Mother hovers near the door. It is an opaque glass door, actually two doors, the width of the hallway. Behind it we can see the multi-colored lights of the tree. There’s giggling, gushing and noise from all of us as we wait for the signal … the trains to start around the tree. They have a distinctive motor sound or noise and when they start the door swings open … Christmas is a reality! Before we arrived there, in that hall, we had been to a Mass, sometimes the children’s mass at nine, or if I served an earlier one I was excused from the children’s mass. We are also maybe going back to a High Mass at eleven either as an acolyte or Choirboy (not me, but Joe). We’ve had breakfast. All this before we are allowed to arrive outside the magic door! The room we entered is surrounded by piles of wrapped packages and even some unwrapped items. Mom directed you to where your pile was. The room was filled with Christmas lights, music, whooping and the noise of tearing paper. You knew then that Christmas had really arrived!

Christmas at 734 has many memories. The two that come to mind are the children standing on the stairs and waiting for Dad to turn on the tree lights before they could enter the living room; and, a Christmas Eve ride in the snow to Princeton, NJ to “Creative Playthings” with Terry Carroll. It was to get toys ordered months before.

The waiting at 734 was not as long as at 4116, but it was just as ritual. Once the entry was gained, the piles were attacked and the noise was the same! I also remember a battle royal between Paul and Andy over a car … which I believe was Paul’s but he had let Andy ride it and then his bigger brother refused to surrender it. This episode has been recorded on that 27 hour tape of our 35mm movies which we took on such occasions.

The ride to Princeton was long and tedious. It resulted in almost all the toys being obtained, but some items were never gotten. It seems strange now thinking of that trip, probably in 1963-64 of how early our connection with Princeton began. Who could have thought then of all the trips we would someday make back up Route #1 for visits to Sue and now to grandchildren.

All these memories are connected and blur into one. They are not to be taken as my only memories of this joyous time of the year. Nor, are there inferences to be made that I think of Christmas only in terms of gifts. Not at all! I think of Christmas in terms of children and all that a child brings to one’s life. The innocence, the wonder, the indescribable looks of love that shine from the soul of those we are blessed to call “our” children or grandchildren. No. Christmas is a child’s feast and it is great to be a child once again … even if only in spirit.

So it is with joy we wish you a wonderful, awe-filled Christmas as you watch your children, nieces, nephews, friend’s children … Oh and Ah! the coming of the Chirst Child once again.

MERRY CHRISTMAS!

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!

Here it is almost the end of the month of September and my song is still unwritten. I started to reminisce about 10 days ago of the Septembers I’d known, but it didn’t get very far. September is a song, school days and the end of summer. “Oh the days dwindle down to a precious few… “.

Unfortunately, all that comes to mind is another year is ending and I have so much to do. When you read this I hope we, June and I, will be on the island of Nova Scotia…enjoying history, good weather and outstanding scenery. It’s all promised in the cruise brochure and travel agents never lie.
“School days, school days, good old golden rule days … reading and ‘riting and ‘rithmetic …taught to the tune of .a hickory stick”. It is all coming back in the reports and ravings of the unbiased parents concerning the newest genius in the house … or so it would seem. It also reminds me of the grind, or studious application if you prefer, of law school. Having Richard T. McSorley waiting anxiously for his results (due in November) re¬minds me of my second year at P.U. (or was it U. of P.?). I had not passed the first year. I had received a 69.7 or 69.8 general average, and according to the book, was on my way to being an ex-student and a member of the Armed Forces. But an appeal was entered and reprieve was granted.

It was based ostensibly on the turmoil in the household in those days. The fall of 1951 and the spring of 1952 were the days we watched Mother slowly die. She was at Winifred’s home and I was sometimes living there, or at the old homestead, and even now as I recall, had an apartment or room closer to the Law School. I recall Mom, even in her semi-comatose state, still being a “Mom”. She complained to others and sometimes in my presence “Poor Paul is still going from Pillar to Post”. I was still not launched. Roie was off to the Holy Child order and Ann to the matrimonial order. So only I remained drifting, or so it seemed to her.

It was an agitating and disquieting time in my life and I was relieved and pleased that the reprieve was granted. I be¬lieved that it was permitted because of those home conditions … but in the years since, I am more apt to believe that Richard T.’s close friendship with Judge Gerald Flood, a trustee of the Law School and on the faculty, may have played a singularly substantial part in the decision. However, one of the conditions of my re-entry was that I had to have an average of 70 for both years. I made it! But I never “grinded” so much in my life, then or since. It was such a honing of skills that I coasted in the last year and won two awards. One, the best pinball player in Cousin’s (the restaurant across the street from the school) and the other, the Most Improved Student Award. The latter didn’t seem quite fair since I was below the bottom of the class, so I had a head start on everyone else when it came to improvement.

But enough of that pathos! Here is a short story from the biography of HST, one I know my father would have enjoyed and which epitomizes in some respects the Truman character.A farmer on his first visit to New York was having his first experience in a fancy hotel dining room. First he was served celery, which he ate. Then a bowl of consomme, which he drank. But when the waiter placed a lobster before him, the farmer looked up indignantly and said “I ate your bouquet, I drank your dishwater, but I’ll be darned if I’ll eat your bug!”

HST enjoyed telling this story throughout his lifetime to illustrate what he considered the unpalatable, whether food or legislation.

I can’t look at a lobster now or see a picture of one without thinking of that story and smiling.

Speaking of lobsters, June and I will soon be up in their country. We are going to travel a bit in Maine after our return from Nova Scotia, so I’ll probably have plenty of laughs or smiles.
Just talked to Dell McSorley Louden in Nova Scotia … Halifax, to be precise. She is going to have her uncle and aunt (Marge) and their spouses as guests sometime on Sunday, October 3rd. She reminded me that the last time we met was in 1972 or 1973 … in Boston when I ran one of the Boston Marathons. She was a college girl then, and now she’s the mother of two girls with a husband who is an Oceanographer and Professor at Nova Scotia University. We’ll give you a full report in the future jottings.

So we say goodbye to September and hope it has been as good for you as it has been for us. I still have a thousand things to do, but they will now need to be done in October… or later … those days just keep dwindling down …so “Carpe Diem”!

8/8/93:
We left in rain and it never stopped. We, June and I, were heading to Arlington and a suprise party for Mary’s 30th year. Down 95 South we drudged -the vision was as into a tunnel, to keep the lights of the car ahead in view. The mists and waves of water spewed by the passing trailers made the ride intense. The culmination was a massive traffic jam on the Wash¬ington Beltway where it took one hour to move 4 miles. The lasagna in the cooler and its drivers arrived at the motel after 5 hours in time to see Tom McSorley just getting ready to return to Mary’s condo. He said he’d be back for us at 7:30. The happy hour was at 8 p.m. We were assembled in the one bedroom apartment (condo) as the door opened with Mary in shock as the room ex-ploded with “Suprise” and then a rendition of Happy Birthday Mary!

It was a fitting end to a long trek. The lasagna was a big hit and we got a bonus in seeing the grandchildren, Tom, Linda, Matthew, Sharon, Kate and Meg. Only Andy and Dan were not present. Andy was expected later but when we left at 9:30 p.m. he still had not checked in.

I later learned that Andy never made it. His flight was cancelled, but he was there in spirit as was Dan who was celebrating a birthday of some 31 years on 8/7/93. It was a great party and I’m looking forward to the video, but it’ll never match being there.

8/14/93:
We are on the eve of our 12th anniversary. The old adages all apply-“Time flies”, “It seems like only yesterday”, etc. They all apply because the journey, though occasionally bumpy, has been a happy one.

It has been pleasing to be able to spend a few days this week alone. No grandchildren, neighbors, in-laws, children, or strays to ruffle the scene-“Just you and me, babe!” Tomorrow we may spend breakfast and supp.er out -with a visit to the slots (they’re June’s, I just do crossword puzzles, read and compose these notes). But then again, we may not. The “freedom from schedules” is one of the Four Freedoms (I think).

I’m reading a biography of Harry Truman. I think of the parallels wi.th Dad. Both were born about the same time. HST, 1884 and RTMcS 1886. Both lived through the same eras of America’s growth and participated in the politics of that growing. They had a moral code of life that was sometimes too rigid, but served them well, if not others. They were two lovers of people and Democrats with a capital “D”. Both were to see the “Ds” come out and into their own on the national scene with FDR. Both were members of a party controlled by “machine” politics -what¬ever that is. I often marvel how it is only Democratic party organizations that become “machines”. The Republicans, who have controlled counties around here and states around the country, s.ince Lincoln ran, are only “organizations”, never machines.

8/15/93:
I was pleased to receive a call from Dan to learn that he passed his P.E. licensing exam for the State of New York. He worked long and hard. It gives him more options in the future. Andy is studying these days for his operator’s license in Nuclear Energy – or something akin to that. But he still has a long way to go. They make a father proud!

I was also suprised to learn that Dan and I were read¬ing the same book -the biography of Harry Truman, which I mentioned above. I was not aware of Dan’s interest in history and it is pleasing to learn.

Well, we spent the anniversary day doing exactly what we wanted-a walk to breakfast at “Brian’s”, and, of course, a walk home. The rest of the day was spent in reading, resting, playing a little piano, June doing her needlepoint and then out to Marabella’s for dinner. Just like the marriage, a rip snorting, roaring, raucous time from morning to night. It couldn’t have been nicer here by the breeze of Avalon overlooking the pool. Tomorrow, Monday, we head back to Philly and prepare for a trip to Myrtle Beach commencing on Friday. So the restful, lazy day will be a good start.

8/22/93:
It’s Sunday. The next to last in August, 1993. I’m sitting on a small porch three floors up looking out at the At.lantic Ocean being whipped by a Northeast wind. I drove up and down the main streets of Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, looking for a book store, paper store, etc. to purchase New York Times, but after 10 miles and 30 minutes – no luck. I settled for a “Charlotte Observer” The news is the same, the puzzle just easier.

I am enjoying doing almost nothing. I’m still reading Truman’s biography and find it stimulating. Do get exercise swimming with the grandchildren and walking with their grandmom (June}. I went later in the day to a golf driving range to hit some golf balls. I couldn’t help thinking of my father ¬maybe because while reading Truman’s bio all the names keep coming up that were household words in the late 40s, Stalin, Stimson, Leahy, Byrnes and on and on. In any event, I realized he, my Dad, never did have an exercise routine in the nature of games, etc. He did walk a great deal, as long as he could, and he had his de¬votions -the daily Mass, early rising, etc. Sure enough, as I walked away from the driving range, I could hear him say “Don’t waste time!” and I still feel the impact of his admonitions-like the son in “Da” – guilty that he might not approve. I remember his seeming indifference, but interest, in my marathon running. Not with much enthusiasm, more like acceptance of the quirks of the “younger generation”.

It is, I suppose, not surprising that even 40 years has not completely dimmed the compulsion to please one’s parents, and guilt for doing “nothing”. We had to fill even our vacation time with sensible tasks along with the “doing nothing”, memorize a poem, take Latin, learn something new -just don’t “fritter away” time. The feeling continues. It reminds me though of the former President of Chicago University, founder of the great Books Curriculum, who, when asked what he did about physical exercise said “Whenever that feeling (.compulsion) hits me, I lay down until it passes”. So, with me, I continue to do nothing until the feeling passes, i.e., that what I’m doing is somehow not right.

We left Friday, 6:20 a.m. We had breakfast at the Maryland House on I-95, just 25 miles from Baltimore. we left there at 8:30 a.m. We had lunch at the North Carolina Welcome Center, just inside the State line. A picnic in the Pine Grove. “We” , was the twins, Sean and David and June and I. We arrived at the Hampton Inn, Fayetteville, at 4 p.m.• , giving the guys some time to swim before dinner.
Off again at 7:20 a.m. with a false start due to a left item and after a great “free breakfast”.

8/23/93:
We arrived in Myrtle Beach at 9:30 a.m. on Saturday. We had to wait until 11 a.m. to pile into our room. Just as we were doing so, Mike, Cindy, Kelly and Matthew arrived along with Tracy, Paul and Mary Lou.

8/24/93:
6:20 a.m. The light is coming, red rose hues, or orange mixed with gray.

The air is cool, no humidity to speak of, or the temperature is so low it has little effect.

Still no ball, just brighter. The red is gone. Gray sits on the horizon.

Lots of .people waking or just sitting watching the morning come. I suppose we’ll see no ball because of the clouds on the horizon.

The ocean seems so much louder bouncing off the building where I’m sitting.

At 6:47 a.m. the ball came just as I went in to get breakfast. Now the whole ball is 2 feet over the horizon and going fast. It is surrounded by gray clouds and puts orange on the water.

Golfed today with Mike Golden at “Black Moor”, an old plantation, called “Longwood”. The club house was a Georgian Palace. The fairways are separated by hugh pines. You cannot see another fairway or green while pursuing your ball down one. Some of the rides from one hol,e to the other were as long as 5 minutes. In fact, Mike and I, going from the 8th to the 9th, took so long we thought we were lost. While sightseeing in the woods, and inci¬dentally looking to see where the ball went, we saw ancient grave markers. Small pieces of stone whose engraving was almost all gone, so they were nearly smooth. We could not read the inscriptions, but due to their age and location, far out on the course, we felt they were probably slaves’ graves.

I also spotted what appeared to be an alligator sitting on the side of a pond. I told Mike and we approached it. It was so real looking we thought it was fake! It was so still we even moved closer. We saw a leg move, then a grunt or a blowing of air like a whoosh, which convinced us both quickly it was no fake. It was only about 18 inches to 2 feet long, but we decided it was big enough for us to get quickly back to our game. Besides, Mike left his alligator measuring tape back at the motel.

Earlier in the day, as we drove off the fairway onto the macadam path, a black snake slithered just ahead of us into the grass on the other side of the path. We now agree that golf in South Carolina is a sure way to commune with Mother Nature.

8/25/93:
Ran into the sun as it rose over the Atlantic. It burst forth from its cloud cover in its orange-red splendor at 6:47 a.m. I was on the beach and the world was slowly turning towards me. The day had dawned and I was there to greet it. Carpe diem! It has occurred to me often these days as I watch grandson Paul, now ap¬proaching two, go through the day with gusto. To be here to en-j.oy it with him is a great joy and it is a moment to be “seized” since it will never be again, as it is with so many moments along the way of life.

The day was a quiet one – reading, coming down the stretch with Truman (the book is 997 pages in length, but so far at 600 it is still absorbing to me). It brings back so many memories of my first days in college – Oblate Prep -realizing that life is more than going to school, etc., etc.

Swimming with June, Paulie and Tracy.

8/26/93:
Played Waterway Course. Gondolas from parking lot to Club House. Course like Avalon -wide open and short. Still had trouble with woods off the tee. Played with Jack Kennedy. His wife drove the cart. He works for PE and lives in Phoenixville, PA. Big guy, was a lineman and now in maintenance. Played well.

Nap with Paulie, then absorbed by the book, since now into Korean War, the one I was drafted to attend, but got deferred to end college and then law school. Remember the McCarthy hearings, the MacArthur firing and his old soldier’s speech. Watched McCarthy on black and white television at Houston Hall at Penn.

Another great day of weather, warm but not humid with a breeze.

8/27/93:
Finished the book today. I can’t remember when I’ve read as long a book as Truman, a biography, with so much joy. It was like reading a LeCarre spy thriller, in that I couldn’t put it down. I was remembering the events recorded that I witnessed, and even took part in, like the draft of 1950 for Korea, which almost made me a member of the armed forces in 1951. I was deferred to graduate in June, but then in December, 1950 a modification of the S.S. Act permitted a further deferment, if admitted to graduate school. This made law school look even better.

I remember the Eisenhower-Stevenson campaign and “I will go back to Korea” speech. How empty it sounds, now that I read what transpired before, and even after, he went. How little difference it made.

I learned much about Truman I would never have garnered from the press. His love of people, music, history and his penchant for writing. His cool farmer demeanor served him so well in the crises, the A-bomb, Marshall Plan, saving Greece & Turkey, the airlift to Berlin, Korea, Potsdam, his campaign in 1948, which proved all the pollsters wrong , or as Fred Allen said “He lost in a Gallup but won in walk”. I remember not being able to go into central Europe because of the airlift, and the food shortage in London in 1948 when I went to Europe with brother Frank on his return to the Philippines via Rome.

9/1/93:
The trip home was uneventful. We left Sunday morning at 7:30 a.m. and stopped for breakfast en route around 10 a.m. We had only Dave with us since Sean had gone home with his Mom and Paul on Saturday morning. We planned on stopping at Fredericksburg, Virginia, but did so well we kept at it until 4 p.m. when we stopped at Laurel, Maryland -off the Baltimore-Washington Parkway, about 25 miles north of DC.

We arrived in Philly on Monday at 9:15 a.m. with Emily chasing everyone away from the Carolina coast. Last year we left ahead of Andrew. Emily was a kinder lady, she turned and is running northeast out to sea as we write.

In re-reading the notes, it seems like a travelogue. Please excuse, but in any event, I write to let you know what your brother, father, etc. is doing, just so you are assured I’m not “wasting my time”.