tom – Page 5 – Paul McSorley's Jottings

April 1, 2007

April 2007

NOW INFANT APRIL JOINS THE SPRING
AND VIEWS THE BRIGHT NEW SKY!
AS A YOUNG SONGBIRD TRIES ITS WING AND FEARS AT FIRST TO FLY!
WITH TIMID STEPS SHE VENTURES ON
BUT HARDLY DARES TO SMILE
TILL BLOSSOMS OPEN ONE BY ONE
AND SUNNY HOURS BEGUILE! (J. Clare edited)

March is ending with a roar. There are the roars in the air from an Air Fest at McDill Airbase south of Tampa, and there is the roar of motors from Grand Prix in downtown St. Petersburg! They expect nearly a million people will be in the area today (3-31-07) and that includes those who are at beaches. It is a beautiful and sunny but not too humid. With weather like this and these attractions the predictions seems reasonable. The auto race is run on the streets of down town St. Petersburg. I am not a fan of either enterprise so all I will get for the next two days is noise. April comes on the morrow and as the poet says, “tiny blossoms open one by one” We are spending more time in giving those blossoms and grass a chance by pulling weeds often. Our amaryllis comes earlier than spring. We now are cutting down the dead ones. They grow along our fence. They are beautiful for about 3 to 5 weeks but then begin to die. It doesn’t seem right and proper that Spring should come and they leave!

The jottings remembering my dad brought to mind another story. My sister Marge while in high school had a friend, named Marie Kenny. In maybe their senior year Marie was an overnight guest of Marge’s. It must have been during the week because around six in the morning my father as usual was rapping on the door announcing, “Benedicamus Domino” (Blessed be the Lord!) to which Marge replied “Deo Gratias” (Thanks be to God). Marie being awakened by the exchange was supposedly to have said something like, “Your Dad’s crazy, it’s the middle of the night!” Ironically Marie was then talking of becoming a nun. When my father heard of that and of her being surprised by the awakening, he commented that she’d never make it as a sister. Despite his opinion after Marie finished college she entered the Holy Child Order and became a nun. She certainly often heard those strange words over the years as a nun.

My Dad is part of my history. He is the prologue to my present. I was surprised to find he was alive when Harriet Beecher Stowe was. She died when he was ten years old. Harriet, I learned too lived in Florida so now she seems just like an old neighbor. The fact that she knew Mark Twain and Oliver Wendell Holmes really makes her historic, or is that just “old”. It is surprising when we think of historic people that some of them were around seemingly just yesterday. It is I suppose some of that ‘wisdom’ you get for surviving over 70 years. Historic doesn’t seem to be as old as it used to be.

Now coming back to the present I did something unusual. I started to read a book and never finished it. In fact I took it back to the library before I had read 5 chapters. It was called “Running With Scissors”. It was a memoir but what memories! I found a review (which I wished I had read earlier) that expressed my view. It read, “ I made it about halfway through this book and said forget it. . I don’t know the last time I started a book and didn’t finish it but this book just wasn’t worth even that. In fact I felt I was somehow doing myself a favor by stopping. I hated every character – there wasn’t a single person that I cared about in the tiniest amount. Reading this book was like having to eat your vegetables out of the garage can.” His final admonition was “Don’t waste your money!” Fortunately I didn’t spend any money to get the book. After reminiscing about the discipline of my father here was a boy without any discipline being imposed on him. A father and mother who did nothing but fight and the mother left for fear of her life, than left the author with her psychiatrist whose was a wacky as could be. He eventually lost his license. She left him with this family completely wild and undisciplined who sought pleasure in everything. This was their purpose in life and demonstrates how having no spiritual values can lead to chaos. I turned to the end of the book to see if there was a coming back to reality, but no such thing. It ends with him living with one of the daughters of the psychiatrist who has managed to get through high school and college. He had never finished elementary school and even had the psychiatrist work up a fraud so he was committed to a mental institution and could not be prosecuted for breaking the law requiring him to attend school until he was 17. I suppose the ‘good news’ is that he was able to write in understandable English today. As another described the book “I still had not found (after 5 chapters) anything that made this book worth all the hype. Lots of childish material and misery-loves –company stories fill this book. Augusten (the author) definitely finds comfort in his role as a victim of society, molestation, family dysfunction, and just about every other form of abuse and/or disordered relationship you can imagine.” All of which leads me to advise: Don’t waste your time or money on this book.

If it did one thing it brought to mind the difference in the disciplined life I was made to lead and fought, and what an undisciplined life could accomplish. Life had no purpose but pleasure in the moment and anyone who interfered were hated and attacked. I was hoping the author would end up seeing this but not in this book.

Sometime ago I had read an opinion article on memoirs. It was there I that I first read about this book. My recollection was that the writer said if you want to read something containing all the things that are useless and hurting in life, you’ll find them here. But he didn’t warn me of ‘how bad’ and his main point was that a memoir is suppose to show how the author overcame all these difficulties and how he now lived with purpose and relatively happy. He did indicate I believe, and know now, that the author did not do this. So it failed in his opinion as even a ‘memoir”.

We went to our favorite theater recently. We witnessed another tormented life. It was Tennessee Williams’ drama “Suddenly Last Summer”. The mother’s ‘love’ of her son is so overwhelming and to such a degree the he becomes a possession. The acting required is awesome but they carried it off wonderfully. The theater is one in which the audience sits in a circle rising from the stage. You feel like you are down there with them as they act. The two women who played the mother and the girl friend/ cousin had the major parts. The hatred of the mother for the young girl, whom she believes aided and abetted in her son’s death oozes out scene after scene to a dramatic physically loud climax. The show is eighty minutes long with no interruptions. It reminded me of the mother in C.S. Lewis’ fictional “Great Divorce” The mother stands on the field just below Heaven’s gate talking to her ghost/angel guide. Her son had died some time before and is with God in heaven. She insists on seeing him and is treating God ‘as a means to’ do so. She exclaims as did the mother in Williams’ play in different words, “This is all nonsense- cruel and wicked nonsense. What right have you to say things like that about Mother-love? It is the highest and holiest feeling in human nature.” The guide’s reply is that natural feelings are not ‘high or low’ in themselves – only when God’s hand is on them. They all go bad when they are set upon their own and make themselves into false gods. In effect saying that even ‘mother-love’ can go sour and become bad.

I have some sad news for the fans of “McSorley’s Old Ale House” or “McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon” founded in 1854 just down the street form Cooper’s Union in the Bowery. Lincoln did not stop in for an ale on February 27,1860 while killing time before his historic address at Cooper’s Union. It is a myth. As the Chicago Press & Tribune reported, “He never drinks intoxicating liquors of any sort…” And he certainly would not have imbibed a few hours before making the most important speech of his career. (All noted in “Lincoln at Cooper’s Union” by H.Holzer) Until next time, Pax Tecum!

March 1, 2007

March 2007

My memories of my Dad are many. He lived to the age of eighty-five and died in my home. We worked in the same law office for several years. It had been his office when I left the service in 1958. By 1961 he was semi-retired and the office was moved. A partnership was formed consisting of Edward Blake, Esq., John Purcell, Esq. and myself. We called it “McSorley & McSorley”. The reason neither Blake nor Purcell’s names were included was that John was only starting practice, he had served many years as a claim adjuster with an insurance company, so he passed on having his name in the title. Ed was a clerk for a Judge and thought it inappropriate to add his name to the title. We listed dad as “of counsel”. This meant that he was retired but available for advice.

My Dad was a martinet, i.e. ,“a person who demands absolute adherence to rules.” He practiced what he preached. He was as hard on himself as on any of his children. His Faith was foremost. I believe that his family originated from Northern Ireland, though we later learned that the name “McSorley” was derivative of “MacDonald” a Scottish name. His family in Ireland converted to Catholicism. He was an ardent believer and practiced the idea that Heaven was somehow earned. He therefore did what that required and made his children do likewise. It helped produce four priests and four nuns but at times it was only an arduous duty carried out without any thoughts of it serving God. Some of those duties were, daily Mass, daily recitation with all those at home of the rosary on our knees before a small altar in the dining room, and constant attention to the duties of your age, e.g., mostly doing your homework for school and household chores.

Even at the office he practiced what he believed was required by rising at noon and reciting aloud the “Angelus”. It is a verse and response prayer originally said in monasteries. It is a dramatic evocation of the moment of Incarnation in the womb of Mary. It opens with the words, Angelus Domini nuntiavit Mariae. (The angel of the Lord announced to Mary). In his book “Mysteries of the Middle Ages”, Thomas Cahill notes, “…it is quite possible that the thrice-daily recitation of the Angelus that became current in medieval Europe was precipitated by the impression made on Francis (of Assisi) by the repeated call of the muezzin (the Muslim call to prayer)”. My Father probably never knew the history of the prayer but it would have made little difference if he had. He religiously stood at noon and recited the prayer. He did so even if other people aside from myself were present. On one occasion I had brought in a friend from the Marine Corps. He was a lawyer and of Jewish background. He was practicing then in Bucks County. His name was Jean Green and he was completely befuddled by my father’s rising and beginning to speak out loud. I quietly whispered to him what was happening and as a good guy he went along with the show. But he often mentioned the incident when we later met.

In spite of these habits of worship Dad had deep feeling for the needs and suffering of others. One of the great acts that I learned of while he was still alive was his supporting a family, named McSorley but no relation, whose home had been destroyed by fire. In 1962 a member of that family, Charles, came to the office to visit Dad and ask for his assistance in getting on the Philadelphia Police force. He got the help and entered the force in October of that year and served for 22 years, mostly as a Narcotic’s Detective. Twenty years before his visit when the fire occurred it made the newspapers. The father, James, was away in Germany at the time of the fire serving in the U.S. Army. I learned about the fire and my Dad’s help when I met Charles at the office in 1962 or shortly thereafter. ‘Chas’, as I call Charles, gave me more details of Dad’s help and it included paying some bills as well as getting them housing. So Dad’s seemingly hard heart was really susceptible to some bending.

Another incident I recall occurred at Holy Cross Cemetery on the family plot. His brother had died of alcoholism. He was found on the steps of the Gesu Church in North Philadelphia. My Dad was sure his brother was on his way out when the Lord called him home. He was given a wake in our home and laid out in our living room. He was taken then to the Holy Cross Cemetery to be buried in the family plot. As we walked behind the casket to the open grave my Dad whispered to me to move a bit to the left and stand over a small stone marker. I did so. Sometime later I inquired as to why I had been requested to do so. I learned that Dad had buried a poor gypsy in that spot and he didn’t want Mother to know about it. Thus I was assigned to cover the stone.

When Dad lived in our home we often had rather loud discussions, some might call ‘arguments’. Our voices were raised and we shared threats. But fifteen minutes later we would be talking about something else in normal voices and the matter was forgotten. My wife would exclaim she didn’t believe I would talk ‘that way’ to my father, she certainly never would think of doing so to her dad. But Dad and I had worked together and our discussions sometimes got a bit louder than usual. I remember one time when he found out that a secretary who had been with me over a year was Jewish. His life long prejudice came out and he tried to get me to fire her. I told him in so many words that I wouldn’t even think of doing so. He soon got over the problem and the young lady stayed another year before getting married.

There was a custom, when I was practicing, before the unification of the Common Pleas Courts, that you had to be formerly admitted to each of the courts. One I remember was the motion for admission to the Orphans Court which handle Estates, Will, etc. The motion had to be made to the entire court sitting just for that occasion. The Orphans Court had nine members including a President Judge. The mover for my admission was Dad. After the formal petition was offered aloud the President Judge asked if there were any objections and if not than the motion for admission was granted. I was admitted. Then began a series of comments by those sitting about my Father. All were complimentary about his practice of the law and his life.. One spoke of the work he did during World War I when he was in the National Guard. He apparently had time to help others who were in need either professionally or otherwise. When he finished the President Judge in closing, not to be outdone, said something like, “Well, I knew your Dad during the Civil War!”

Whenever I would walk with my Dad from our office building to City Hall where the courts were located, he would be constantly saying hello to passing people. He would then tell me who they were, etc. Sometimes he even took the time to stop and introduce his son. His activities in politics enabled him to meet people of all professions and business. He was a Democrat in a city, which had been run by Republicans for over 50 years. In fact he was named a candidate for some office since the few members of the party had to put up a candidate even when they knew that the chance of getting elected was out of the question. I believe I have mentioned in these writings previously about riding around City Hall. The ride was to read, on the new neon newscast flashing on the Bulletin Building, the results of the election. We had to go around a few times before the name McSorley came up and the few votes were listed.

These memories also bring regret. I would have like to have known my father when he was a young man. I find too some of the habits of his in myself. His believed that religious worship on Sundays was an obligation. I do not so believe, but it often comes into my mind on such days. He never, as long as I knew him, acknowledged any interest in sports, nor have I, except to watch grandchildren enjoying them. I recall my father watching me only once in the years of high school and college running. I do appreciate his example of disciplining oneself. I find myself trying to imitate him in that. He continued as long as I remember to read and write. He left us in a way that I hope the Lord considers doing for me, viz., quietly in his sleep.

“Grandchildren are the crown of old men; and the glory of children is their parentage” (Proverbs 17:6)

Until next time Pax Tecum!

February 1, 2007

February 2007

My memories of my Mom are few and dim. She died in 1952 when I was twenty years old. I have one photograph of her. It was taken by a newspaper and shows her in a bathrobe sitting on the side of a hospital bed. She is holding in her hand a letter. It was may 1948 and the letter is from President Harry Truman. It was congratulating her on being named the “Catholic Mother of the Year” for America. A picture of my Dad has been superimposed on this picture just below where Mom is holding the letter.

Her name was Marguerita, which I understand is from a Latin word meaning ‘pearl’. But everyone called her “Rita”. But a pearl she certainly was when you think of how much a pearl stands out from the contents of other shells. Being named “Catholic Mother of the Year’ was not surprising since she had fifteen children in the first nineteen years of marriage. By 1948 when this occurred, four of her sons were priests, or about to be since two of them would be ordained in 1948. Three of her girls were then nuns and the youngest, Rosemary, would enter the Holy Child order of nuns in 1950. She certainly qualified as the Catholic mother of any year just with those statistics. She was a catholic mother in her abilities and talents. She had lost one child in the 1919 influenza epidemic. So by 1948 having be challenged by the task of raising so many children it was not surprising that her health had begun to fail. She would have good periods and then bad ones. I recall most of the last year of her life she was in bed. She was in and out of consciousness during that time. She was by then living in the home of her eldest daughter Winifred.

She was born on November 28, 1887. At the age of eleven, in 1898, she made the newspapers. She had embroidered a coverlet of red, white and blue. She asked her parents to mail it to Admiral Dewy, the hero of the Spanish-American War. They thought that would be the end of it, but not, the Admiral sent a “thank you” note. Some how the press got a copy of the note he had sent and ran an article entitled, “Dewy Thanks A Little Girl”

She was an outstanding student in the Parochial School she attended in South Philadelphia. She was therefore offered the opportunity to enter ‘Girls High” if she could pass an entrance exam. Girls High was the academic equivalent of “Central High”, the boys high school of high academic requirements and rating. She succeeded in passing the exam and was the first graduate from the Parochial school system to enter Girl’s High. She went on to more academic success in high school and then entered Normal School, another name for a Teacher’s college in those days. After graduating from Normal School she taught First grade. But when her father died in 1908 she took on the task of caring for her mother. She, her mom, was to me as Grandmom Cosgrove. Grandmom eventually came to live with us in our home in West Philadelphia. I remember her vaguely since she died before I was six years old.

Mom was married on her twenty-fifth birthday, November 28,1912. It was also Thanksgiving Day. She and Dad had settled for that Thursday when they had difficulty getting the Saturday of that week. Among her talents, in addition to embroidering, sewing etc., was oil painting. I distinctly remember an oil portrait of Christ’s mother Mary on the wall in our home. I had thought it had to have been purchased it look so professional. I was really surprised when I learned that it was Mom’s work. In addition to those talents she was the only doctor most of us ever knew. She gave birth to nine of her children at home. It wasn’t until the last five or six that she delivered in a hospital.

Another of my fondest memories in a walk I had with her on the beach in Sea Isle City. It happened in 1949. I had like my six older brothers thought I should be a priest. So I spent two years at a junior Seminary College in Newburgh, N.Y, but now I felt I couldn’t continue. I wanted to tell Mom first so I brought up the subject of my schooling and that I wanted to end it. She suggested we take a walk on the beach. I can still feel her arm over my shoulders as we walked. She was most loving, sympathetic and understanding. She knew my greatest fear was how would I tell my Father, so she said she would handle that and did so.

All of her children had been launched into careers by 1952 except me. My sister Winifred told me that every once in a while in some of her conscious moments, Mom would lament that Paul was still unsettled. She would say, ‘He’s going from pillar to post’. So even in the days when her life was waning she still was concerned and worried about her child’s welfare. It was as if she couldn’t rest in peace until her task was completed but the Lord thought otherwise and called her home on November 15,1952.

I remember another funny experience. We lived in a large house in West Philadelphia. It had three living floors and an attic on top and a basement below. There were two sets of stairs from the first floor. One came from the parlor area in the front of the house and the other from the kitchen in the rear. The stairs from the kitchen were enclosed up to just three steps below the second floor hallway. I was on this platform that the two stairways met. I was coming down in the dark from the third floor and walking on the second floor hallway when I was frightened. A big “BOO!” came out from seemingly no where and made me jump. Then I saw it was my Mom standing on the platform between the two stairways. It reminded me later that even after all these years as a mother she was still very child like.

Mom loved music. She played the piano with gusto. We had ‘sing alongs’ at birthday parties and other celebrations. One of the musical gimmicks was to take an old standard and write words for it, a parody. It could be about the particular person being feted or the even we were celebrating. All of us were encouraged to learn a musical instrument, piano, violin, etc. In my case I had been offered a dollar a week to be used either Boy Scouts or piano lessons. I took the Boy Scouts since by joining and attending the meetings I could go to summer camp. Later I regretted not learning the piano. While I was living alone in the fifties in the big empty house I started taking lessons. I think it was my sister Mary a teaching nun who was instructing me. I didn’t do well. Later using method call “Faking” which ignored the bass clef. I eventually could play some melodies, but I’m glad my Mom wasn’t here to hear them. She would have covered her ears!

Later in 1948, the year Mom was named Catholic Mother; she had a very happy moment. Her oldest son Frank, a missionary priest in the Philippines, came home. The Japanese had interned him from late 1942 till 1945. He spent that time in the Santa Tomas University in Manila, which had been converted into a prison. Frank could have come home immediately after his release but he opted to return to his people and restart his work. He left America in 1939 for the mission, so it had been nearly ten years since Mom had seen her first born. The reunion was a moving one for all of us. I had been only ten when he left and had only vague memories of participating in his first High Mass and attending his ordination in Washington, DC. I was by this time finished my first year in college. Sometime last in July of 1948 Frank was going to head back to the Philippines. He obtained permission to go back by way of Europe. My Dad opted to pay for my going along with him at least to Rome. We were sitting in the car to be driven to New York Harbor and Mom was standing on the porch waving ‘good-bye’. We were in Sea Isle City, NJ and the porch was about 6 feet up from the ground. So we were both leaning towards the window and looking up. The car started to move off, we waved and she did too. I noticed as we settled back in our seat tears in Frank’s eyes. He saw me looking and said, “I’ll never see her alive again!” How prophetic that was! She was not here either to see him raised to a Vicar in 1954 and consecrated a Bishop in 1958. He joined her in heaven in 1970.

These thought and memories of my Mom came to be through a request of my nephew Greg McSorley. He had heard a great deal about Granddad Richard but little about Grandmom Rita—so he gave me the idea for these jottings. Until next time, Pax Tecum!

January 1, 2007

January 2007

My father has been looking over my shoulder again! I’m playing games on the computer. I can hear him saying, “Your ‘frittering’ away time”, “Time is too valuable to be wasted”, or “Idle brains are the devil’s workshop”. I don’t stop playing. My dad’s has been dead now over 35 years but his admonitions stay with me. They still come into my head like they were coming out of his mouth! Time just doesn’t heal all memories. In some cases that’s great but we certainly would like to decide which we want to keep and those we want to lose. But memory doesn’t seem to be that controllable or maybe I should just say ‘my’ memory. I can’t really testify as to anyone else’s.

We all have memories of parents, teachers, or friends who over the years have suggested we use our time wisely. On my father’s last day with us I drove him from church to home. I was in running clothes. He asked me about them and I acknowledge I had been running and was planning to run a marathon on Saturday in New York. He didn’t verbally admonition me at that point but his past attitude regarding such was apparent. He had by previous comments indicated his thought, that ‘exercise was great, marathons a waste of time’. There is no question he made me conscious of the need to conserve time and for most part I’ve tried to follow.

It’s been said, “memory plays tricks”. It brings back to view sometimes the strangest things – like my father’s admonitions yet sometimes I can’t recall what I had for breakfast or the author of a book I read just last week. But I can recall the words to a song I sang some 30 years ago. It also reminds me occasionally of things I regret having done. It doesn’t keep them buried, as you would like. I can recall things that happened at my running events. I will never forget an incident in Sea Isle City run, now at least 30 years ago when my buddy Bill King managed to finish in the money due to the fellow ahead of him being attacked by some ‘druggies’ driving by in a car. I of course I never let him forget it. My usual comment is, “What some guys won’t do to finish in the money!” Another running memory was my surprise to hear my brother Father Pat comment how much he enjoyed watching the marathon in New York. Then I learned why. My start and finished of that marathon was at the Tavern on the Green in Central Park. I passed the tavern at the end of each lap. Each lap lasted an hour. They, Pat and Father Jim, would be out there to cheer me on. Of course they spent the time in between in the Tavern, so now I understood why Pat thought watching a marathon was so much fun!

While writing and thinking about memory by mere coincidence I happen to read a meditation on a verse from Hebrews. It read, “For I…will remember their sins no more” The commentary to it was, “I find encouragement knowing that even Jesus is said to have ‘a poor memory’ when it come to recalling our sins. So I want to be like Jesus in this regard. I hope always to remember the blessings I have received and the good things in life. These are pleasant memories that bring peace”

Memory has been a subject of study for years. It was in the writings of Plato and Aristotle. In 400 AD the philosopher Augustine wrote a chapter in his book “The Confessions” on memory. It was entitled “A Philosophy of Memory” One of his descriptions sums up how we might see memory working. “When I am in that realm (memory), I ask that whatsoever I want be brought forth. Certain things come forth immediately. Certain other things are looked for longer, and are rooted out as it were from some deeper receptacles. Certain others rush forth in mobs, and while some different thing is asked and searched for, they jump in between, as if to say, ‘Aren’t we perhaps the ones?’ By my heart’s hand I brush them away from the face of my remembrance until what I want is unveiled and comes into sight from out of its hiding place. Others come out readily and in unbroken order, just as they are called for; those coming first give way to those that follow. On yielding they are buried way again, to come forth when I want them. All this takes place when I recount anything by memory” I can’t think of reading anywhere such an apt description of how our memory seems to work. I say ‘seems’ because that is the way it looks to me. Still 1600 years later there is still the “Undiscovered Mind: How the Human Brain Defies Replication, Medication and Explanation”, which is also the title to a book by John Horgan. He is a writer specializing in Science with a best seller in the early 90’s,“The End of Science”. Horgan in this later book has seven chapters devoted each to a theory hoping to explain consciousness. He refers to the ‘explanatory gap”, i.e., the inability of physiological theories to account for psychological phenomenon such as perception, memory, reasoning, and emotion much less consciousness. Consciousness is subject of the ‘eighth’ chapter and is referred to as a ‘conundrum’. In that chapters he reports of attending a conference at the University of Arizona in 1994 billed as ‘an interdisciplinary scientific conference on consciousness’. He opens the chapter with quotes from the 17th, 18th, 19th and 20th Centuries, all alluding to the conundrum of consciousness. The twentieth century quote is from Gunther Stent. ”Searching for molecular explanations of consciousness is a waste of time, since the physiological process responsible for this wholly private experience will be seen to degenerate into seemingly quite ordinary, workaday reactions, no more no less fascinating that those that occur in, say, the liver.”

Horgan writes on the conference saying, “their presentations (all the different mind sciences) had all the trappings of serious scientific discourse: technical term, references to experimental data, equations. But they still seemed a little …off” There was one suggested explanation that is from a deeper source than science. It was by Danah Zohar who has degrees in physics from MIT and philosophy and religion under psychoanalyst Erik Erikson of Harvard. She wrote in her book Quantum Self: “It was time to move beyond dualism, and accept that both matter and mind stem from a deeper source, ’the quantum’. Human thoughts, she assured us, are quantum fluctuations of the vacuum energy of the universe, which is really God” Horgan ignores this suggested solution. He is in atheist. But I have read how he was and is seeking answers in Buddhism, psychedelic drugs, and going to the East to visit mystics.

In 2002 he wrote an essay for the New York Times entitled, “More Than Good Intentions Holding Fast to Faith in Free Will”. In it he writes, “Dr. Blackmore reasoning strikes me as less spiritual than Orwellian”. Dr. Blackmore contends that ‘free will’ is just a feeling and that we really don’t control the action. Horgan can’t accept that premise. He believes in ’free will’ because it ‘has social values” It forces us to take responsibility for ourselves. Belief in God has social value too but he doesn’t apply that reasoning to that belief. How he can accept ‘free will’ without scientific proof and still not believe in God is a ‘conundrum’

This looking at the failure of science to explain ‘my consciousness’ has strengthened my belief that part of me—call it consciousness or whatever – is not composed of matter. There is within me a spirit that is not controlled by bouncing neurons. It is a spirit put there by the creator of man to remind him that life is just a journey with a purpose. This purpose is to direct that spirit back to its creator, so when all that is ‘me’ that is matter, melts away my ‘spirit’ will move back to its creator.

Speaking of the body, I am happy to say that mine is recovering very well from the siege of pneumonia. I will have a sleep study to see if I can rid myself of the oxygen tubes when I sleep. But I feel like my old self and have graduated from my Physical Therapist treatment. I am even planning on returning to the gym for exercise three times a week. I am grateful that the Lord has given me another chance at living. I am grateful to June, all my family and friends whose cards, thoughts, and prayers helped me reach that goal. Until next time, Pax Tecum!

December 1, 2006

December 2006

November ended with me being in the hospital. I had pneumonia. It was apparently bacterial but what ever, it was deadly. I went in on Nov.26th and finally got home on Dec. 13th. I learned only later how serious it was in that June called my children and they came to visit. I was again grateful to the Lord for giving me another opportunity to serve him since from what I understand the doctors had done all they could and the surviving rested on prayers and my good fortune. So the Thanksgiving thoughts became realities in a very short time.

Going home was finally agreed upon when they eliminated the need for me to go to a rehabilitation house and felt that June with the help of Home Health Care could manage. We have since improved sufficiently that even the Home Health Care nurse has decided she need not return! I also have a physical therapist coming and I am now back with exercising. Today (12/30) I took about a half-hour walk with June.

Another wonderful first occurred as the year drew to a close. On Wednesday evening Dec. 20th we were serenaded as we sat on our porch by “Carolers”, some 20 children with Pastor Mark, a guitarist, Lee Martin and a number of adults. I had hoped to attend the Christmas Eve service but the Doctor thought we should stay away from crowds for a while since there’s lots of flu going around and my resistance is not very high. So we did so. The caroling was one way of celebrating the birthday of Christ but we were blessed with even a better celebration. Our good friends Jim and Lynn Doto always have a birthday party on Christmas Eve for Jesus with their two sons, James and Joseph. They brought the party to our house. We had cake put candles on it and sang ‘Happy Birthday Jesus’ Being confined to the house, except for the occasional walks and having to rest every couple of hours is difficult. It’s another good example of how reasons doesn’t always control our conduct. I have no doubts of the reasonableness of the instructions to rest often and not over do, to use the oxygen tube any time I lay down, etc. They are all correct and helpful. But despite the knowledge of such the spirit wants me to quietly ignore the instructions and believes it is able to do as it wishes. It is like ridding one self of an addiction. It takes will power not just the knowledge of it being right. So I continue to work on that and with the help of a loving June am doing a bit better every day.

Christmas Eve brought memories of the many before today’s. But this one will be remembered now as the day that I walked a ‘whole block’. It was tough to concentrate even on computer games. But as the days began to past and strength started returning I finally found I could concentrate and read. I chose an old book. One published in 1972, which I kept to read again sometime. This was to be the time though I couldn’t swear I hadn’t done so in the past 35 years. It was reminiscence of John F. Kennedy by two of his closest friends and associates, Ken O’Donnell and Dave Powers. They entitled it “Johnny We Hardly Knew Ye” which is a line from an Old Irish song. The line appeared on a poster that was held up in the air by a fan in early 1963 as they left Ireland after a visit. Ken and Dave were with him as helpers and associates from 1946 onward. They were riding in the car behind his on that tragic day in Dallas in 1963.

The book accented John’s humor and intellectual approach to all problems. John Kennedy had not initially had any thoughts of being active in politics. His family had always been involved with both grandparents serving in some capacity in the Democratic Party of Boston. So it was natural that one of Kennedy boys would be so involved. That duty fell easily on Joseph the natural glad hander and outgoing member of the clan. Joe died a hero in a plane crash in 1944. In 1945 John was a senior at Harvard and had written a best seller entitled “While England Slept” It was thoughts he garnered while working with his father in London. His father was for a time the ambassador to the Court of England. John wanted to be a writer and teacher, not a politician. He was a reporter for the Hearst Syndicate at the United Nations Conference in San Francisco. That experience led him to be drawn with reluctance in to politics. He told someone that whether you like it or not the place where you can personally do the most to prevent another war was in political office. So in 1946 when the opportunity came due to a vacancy in the 11th Congressional District with he help of friends like O’Donnell and Powers he filed for the office. The rest as the say is “history”. They had many stories of John enjoying humor. One incident I liked written by the authors was: “There was never another political celebrity who was as sincerely unpretentious or who took him self less seriously. One night during the 1960 campaign he was speaking to a crowd of farmers in Sioux City, Iowa, where his clipped Cape Cod accent with it broad and flat a sounds and rolling r’s seemed comically out of place. He reached a climax in his oration on agricultural depression with a shouted question, ’What’s wrong with American fah-mah today?’ He stopped for a momentarily dramatic pause, and down from the balcony loud and clear came a reply from a comical listener in a perfect imitation of the New England accent, ‘He’s stah-ving!’ The hall rocked with laughter, but nobody in the crowd was laughing harder than Jack Kennedy himself. He was doubled up and stamping around the platform. There was not much seriousness in the rest of his speech.”

John Kennedy suffered a spinal injury when his PT-109 boat was laid low by a Japanese destroyer. It continued to give him pain and then he developed an infection. He was hospitalized from October 1954 till March of 1955. His condition was so serious that on three occasions he was given the last rites. During his convalescence he continued to work on an idea for an article on political courage. He expanded the article to a book. He did all the research himself. As Dave Powers noted he had a room full of books. The book was written and entitled “Profiles in Courage” and won a Pulitzer Prize in 1957. I have seen references to it even today some fifty years later.

The biggest issue seeming to prevent him from running for President was his religion. A Catholic, it was believed, could not or would not be elected to that office. During his campaign JFK met this issue, with a historical speech on the separation of Church and State. He made it to a conference of Evangelical ministers in Houston, Texas. He may not have convinced the Ministers but there was no doubt that he removed that objection from the minds of many voters. Before the campaign in 1957 he was elected to the Board of Overseers of Harvard University. His father commented, “If an Irish Catholic can get elected as an overseer at Harvard, he can get elected to anything.”

I have shared some of the book with you since they were things I had forgotten about JFK. I do remember he was an exception in that he did all his own writing. He often included an appropriate quote. One I liked was: “There are three things which are real; God, human folly, and laughter. The first two are beyond our comprehension so we must do what we can with the third.” An unnamed Indian philosopher wrote it. Speaking of his doing his own writing an incident occurred when he was interviewing Bob MacNamara for the job of Secretary of Defense. Mr. MacNamara had admired “Profiles in Courage” He asked JFK if he had written Profiles without the help of a ghost. He was then the president of Ford Motor Company. He commented to the press after his appointment that “When the president of Ford makes a statement to the press it has to be prepared and edited by the public relations department and approved by the vice-president in charge of public relations. Its nice when you can just pick up a ball-point pen and write it yourself.” He like many others was impressed with JFK relying on his own writing without a ‘ghost’ or a ‘pr’ man.

Recalling things about JFK also brings back memories of my own political ambitions around the same time. I recall one incident particularly. I was standing on a street corner telling a crowd of about 15 why they should vote for JFK. I can’t remember any of my talk but I remember seeing a familiar face in the back of the crowd. I couldn’t place him then but did later. He was Michael Stack’s dad. Mike and I had been together in College and Law School. His dad had been a Congressman during Roosevelt’s time. Mike later ran Mayor Tate’s mayoralty campaign and his son of the same name became a State Senator, and may still be. But I still recall with a bit of pride and awe that I got a former Congressman’s attention at least for a short while. But then it could be that he only stood and listened since I was a friend of his son! Until next time Pax Tecum!

November 1, 2006

November 2006

Today is Election Day 2006. Forty years ago this day I was a candidate for the Pennsylvania State Legislature. I was a candidate as a result of winning a primary election some months before. The fact that it took a primary to pick a candidate came as a result in some major shake-ups in the party and the reapportionment of the district. The State legislature had the previous year reapportioned this district among others so that it resulted in two incumbent Democrats residing in the same ‘new’ district. One of them decided to retire and the other to run for the office. The Democratic Party organization in Philadelphia was in the process of changing with a new chairman and new administrators, etc. The one remaining incumbent legislator did not get the party endorsement. As a matter of fact neither did I but I don’t think I really sought it. I was active in the organization as a committeeman and was on a city board as a result of the Mayor’s appointment. I think that the party decided not to endorse anyone since there were two incumbents as the result of the reapportionment. So there was a primary to select a candidate. I won the primary and it would be the only election I would every win. I made a good showing in the general election by garnering more votes then the Democratic candidate for Governor, Milton Shapp. My opponent, only named by the Republican Party in June of that year, was better known. He was an All-American basketball player when he played for what was then called La Salle College. He went onto play for the Philadelphia’s pro basketball team the “Warriors” and just before his retirement in June he had been playing for the “Knicks”. His name was Tom Gola. So in addition to have more registered Republicans in the district than Democrats, his name recognition made a win difficult if not impossible. I had unwillingly followed by Father’s advice when he said “Run but don’t win!” He thought the running would be a help to a young lawyer by honing his communication skills, but winning might lead to too many temptations not easily overcome. I had evidence of this over the years as I saw classmates elected to judgeships and offices succumbing to accepting money illicitly and ending their careers. I could assure myself that “I would never have done that!” but the fact is I didn’t have to face such, so I will never really know if I could have avoided those offers.

One of the fondest memories I have is of watching my then three-year-old daughter running around in a shopping mall parking lot holding up in her hand three or four new pencils. I was there speaking to a group. The pencils were campaign ads. Each was inscribed the suggestion; “Vote for McSorley November___!” That three-year-old little girl will celebrate twelve years of marriage this month and now has three young boys running around her house and yard.

Another memory is being asked to speak at a men’s club located at a church in neighboring Cheltenham Township. It was outside Philadelphia and thus outside the district I was seeking to represent. A friend who was the leader of the group asked me. It was on the day before the election. The subject we were asked to speak on was the candidate for Governor. They had another speaker who was going to speak on the Republican incumbent and candidate. It turned out the other speaker was an old friend of mine. He was at that time, I think, a Common Pleas Court judge and later became a Federal Judge. His name was Jim Cavanaugh. Our families both had places at the shore, in Sea Isle City. We had been friends there as young boys. When Jim got up to speak he began very solemnly with words something like this: “I have been keeping this incident to myself throughout Mr.McSorley’s campaign though I had thought of expressing it many times: It is that the fact that he illegally sneaked into the movies! The Movie Theater was out on a pier in Sea Isle City. It was neither well kept nor well attended. It was discovered that there were holes in the floor wide enough for a young lad to crawl up through. But to get there you had to go out on a pipe hand over hand to the area, almost a block out under the theater on the pier. As you did so you went out over the ocean, depending on the tide, and then could shimmy up and crawl through the hole into the theater.” At this point Jim said,” I know he did it, because I did it with him!”

He got a great laugh. I had forgotten about such escapades. I then remembered it made no difference what the movie was since the challenge was just in getting into the theater. Once there we sometimes sat for a while to see if we could enjoy the picture but usually not too long. We then left. But it also gives you some idea of how well the theater was attended and supervised since we did it several times and never had anyone stop us.

In 1967 Mayor Tate decided to run for a second term. He had become Mayor when the prior Mayor Richardson Dilworth had resigned to run for Governor in 1962. Tate was elected in ’64 and under the City Charter he could run for another term in ’68. However, the city’s Democratic Party leadership had changed. He had supposedly a friend then leading the city’s Democratic Party, Frank Smith. But when the mayor suggested he run again the chairman decided to back the then City Controller, Alex Hemphill. So the mayor decided to form a ticket and run in the primary. His campaign manager for this was an old friend and classmate, Mike Stack. Mike asked me to enter my name as a candidate for “Register of Wills” It was thought that with a ticket with many of the democrat incumbents, it would cause the chairman to support Tate. The Register of Wills at that time was John E. Walsh and old friend of my Dad’s and a lawyer I had co-counseled with in a murder trial in 1959. Shortly after this occurred, I was called by my Dad into his office. He was still practicing law. When I entered there was John E Walsh sitting across the desk from my Dad. He asked me about my filing for Register of Wills. I explained to him Tate’s strategy. (Which by the way did work and Tate became the party’s candidate) I explained I intended to do nothing re campaigning etc. My Dad then turned to John Walsh and said, “John, you can be sure I’ll vote for YOU!” I suppose that part of my Dad’s political philosophy about my running for office: Run but don’t win!

We started to write this reminiscence on Election Day. It is now over and we have a new majority in the House and Senate. We have another first in that a woman will be the House Leader. She is a wife, mother, and congresswoman. One wag noted that “being a ‘mother’ she certainly knows how to run a house” She had lunch with the President. It was reported that no matter how many times he asked her to pass him something, she didn’t do it. The results prove that democracy is still at work in America. So if you are not pleased with the results at least you can be pleased with that.

November, besides being election time, is a time for me to remember loved ones that have left us in this month. My Mom, my oldest sister Win, and my oldest brother Frank all died in November. Win and Mom on the same day the fifteenth, Mom in 1952 and Win in 1998. Frank the then Bishop of Sulu died on the 19th in 1970. My sister Winnie was a like a second mother to me. My mom had expressed sometime in the months she lingered at Win’s home, how she was unhappy for not having seen Paul settled, as she had all of her thirteen other children. She saw me still going from ‘ pillar to post’. Winnie told me about this and was there for help whenever I needed it. I still recall the death of John F. Kennedy in November in 1963, I had campaigned for him. I remember riding home on the subway that day seeing tears in many people’s eyes. We were in Court that day in the midst of a zoning appeal when the news arrived, as a result the court adjourned. It was a shock to the nation then and still is remembered as such these many years later. Till next time Pax Tecum!

October 1, 2006

October 2006

In the past family and friends have suggested that I write a “memoir” or simply a story of my past. In addition, over the years (now #14) of these writings readers have commented about enjoying more my reminiscing about past incidences rather then my meandering book reviews and philosophizing. Such stories of past happenings are classified as ‘memoirs’; at least I thought so until I recently read an essay on ‘memoirs’. It was entitled “Misery Loves a Memoir”. The point of the essay was that present day memoirs all seem to be stories of recovery from addictions, abuse or some mental illness or handicap. The writer says it this way: “Suffering produces meaning. Life is what happens to you, not what you do. Victim and hero are one” He points to a best seller, “Running with Scissors” which is to him, “a stew of just about all the above ingredients.” Which seems a bit like saying things happen to you and they’re inevitable and you can do nothing about it! Granted things do happen to you that you can neither predict nor wish for but even then you can do ‘something’ about it. He was complaining about people who think memoirs are only stories about overcoming some disaster, etc. He then points to some of the classics, like St. Augustine’s “Confessions”, Wordsworth’s “Prelude” and the most famous one in English, Thoreau’s “Walden Pond” He notes that no one has ever referred to “Walden Pond” as a memoir. It is the reminiscing of the author as he spends two years alone near the pond contemplating the present state of society. It is certainly a ‘memoir’ and his examining society and its ills. Some quotes I like were “trade curses everything it handles” and “The world is a place of business. What infinite bustle! I am awakened almost every night by the panting of the locomotive. It interrupts my dreams. There is no Sabbath! It would be glorious to see mankind at leisure for once. It is nothing but work, work, work”. These remarks had to been written sometime around the 1850’s. I wonder what he would have to say about our conduct these days?

The essayist had a good point when he questioned, “Is there nothing more to life then recovery and grief? Is there no idea of the good life we can sustain beyond the possession of health?” I can certainly shout a loud ‘yes’. It is the ability to enjoy the simple things like a walk along the shore, a good meal; happy times with loved ones and the blessings of faith that make a life. The blessing of faith particularly makes possible the ability to face a ‘recovery’ and ‘grief’ with hope not despair. I can look back to some fourteen years ago when I, through the loving acts of my wife, was made to face the reality of being an alcoholic. I could write a memoir about that and it would apparently qualify as a today type of ‘memoir’.

What is the dictionary definition? It is an ‘account of the personal experience of an author’. So writing about overcoming an addiction would certainly qualify. The word memoir is a fancy one for autobiography. It requires the use of our memory. I have some strange times with mine. I can walk into a room seemingly to find something and can’t remember why I came. Yet, at the same time I can recall a marathon run in New York in 1971 the weekend we laid my Dad to rest.

Memory is a mystery. Recently a Harvard psychologist conducted a test to try to determine if child abuse memories were fact or fiction. The psychological word is “repressed” but later resurrected, i.e., the results of imagination. The outcry of many abused children, now adults and their supporters cause the psychologist to rethink her endeavor. So the next time she chose people with memories of alien seductions. She did so feeling the evidence of such happenings would be easier to prove or disprove. She was wrong. She was just as stridently attacked by fellow professionals and societies of ‘abductees’ that she gave up. It is all for her now just a ‘bad’ memory. The question of whether a memory of an event in our past was repressed or created seems insoluble, except to those with a cause to protect and promote such memories.

Memory is a part of our consciousness that has fascinated philosophers, physicians, and psychiatrist from the beginning of the known world. Augustine devoted a chapter to it in the book, “Confessions of St.Augustine”. The interest created in abused children with the discovery of the many pedophile priests, raised anew the strong question of fact – did it actually happen and the person repress it only to recall it years later, or did it all come from the imagination? Lawyers have experienced the reliability of memory in noting that even when several people view the same incident they report, many times, different facts, some even contradicting others. So it is good to remember that sometime our memory is not reliable. It is better when the matter is important that a memorandum be created to record the facts. I do that often these days especially when I take a trip, as we did recently, so that I can retell it in these writings.

June and I left St. Pete’s on Sunday October 15th and drove over to the East Coast to the city of St. Augustine. Like Savannah we had promised ourselves many times we would visit the East Coast and some of its highlights, but then again as we drove back into Florida down I-95 we turned “right” and headed home.

St. Augustine is full of history. It was the first place on this continent we call North America that a European stepped upon. (Unless you believe that Eric the Red from Norway or Sweden hopped over here before 1500) Ponce de Leon landed on the soil we now call St.Augustine and Florida in 1513. He was the founder and governor of Puerto Rico. He was looking for the ‘fountain of youth’. He landed in the area of the Timucua Indians and placed a cross into the ground being Spain’s first claim to North America. He found what he called the “Fountain of Youth” and is to day a preserved well. We were located on San Marco Ave. This is the main street for many of the historic sites It was just a short walk to the Matanza Bay. A block away from our motel was the Fountain of Youth Park. Across from our place was a restaurant called “Le Pavillion”. It sounded French but it was more continental serving both crepes and schnitzel Viennese style. It was a preserved house built in 1868. Down the street, where we dined Sunday night, was the “Raintree” restaurant. All the friends who have visited St. Augustine had recommended it. It too was an old house with a gate and garden, which you walked through to the front door. Just next door was one of June’s favorite spots, Dairy Queen. We had dinner from there one night, i.e., June has a blizzard and I had some soft ice cream. But we did more than eat in St. A’s. We took a trolley tour and used it Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday. We visited the Fountain of youth Museum and could see why the 4’11’’ Ponce could have thought the water caused youth. The Indians there were 6 to 7 feet tall and lived to the 60’s and 70’s, while Ponce and the Europeans at that time lived to only 40 or so and stood about as tall as Ponce. He thought it was the water but what did it was their life-style and diet. I drank the water and it didn’t work so I too am convinced it was their life style. Along San Marco also was the Mission Nombre de Dios, the place where Pedro de Aviles Menendez landed and found the city of St. Augustine on September 18,1565 the feast day of St.Augustine, so that’s how it got its name. “Nombre de Dios” means, “name of God”. After landing the priest with them celebrated Mass and today it is a beautiful area for jut walking from the street to the bay. It has a large metal cross rising some 130 or so feet in the air, a memorial platform to stand on and look out over the Bay, and a chapel all located around the area. We enjoyed a walk there. Further down the street is the Fort Castillo de San Marcos, which is still standing after all these years and was never taken by the invading French and English. We spent three days there and could have spent a week more just to see the most popular and famous sites. We did go to the restored lighthouse some 175 feet up. We walked the 212 steps to the top. Our view was quick since there were nests of wasps settled around the top.

On Thursday we went down to Merritt Island just below Cape Canaveral. We dined out on Coca Beach by the Atlantic. The next day, Friday we spent the day at Cape Canaveral and the Kennedy Space Center. We took an afternoon tour, after two Imax movies in the morning, of the Cape and Kennedy Space Center. On the cape we saw the launching complexes where Shepherd and Glenn were launched into space. Then we went to the launching sites of the moon mission and ended the day at the Astronauts Hall of Fame. We could have spent many more days there as well as we could have in St.Augustine’s and still had more to see. Pax Tecum!

September 1, 2006

September 2006

Most of September was spent away from home. We left on Sunday August 27th and arrived home on Wednesday, September 20th. Looking back the only time away when it was just the two of us, was at the beginning of the journey and the end…like book ends with a long volume of activity in between. In the ‘in between’ times’ we visited children, grandchildren, and friends and were with Shirley, Rich McSorley’s wife. He died as were driving to his home on Thursday August 31st. He had been under hospice care and terminal for many months so it was not a surprise.

We left St. Petersburg on that Sunday around eight AM arriving in Savannah, GA around two PM. We finally were going to visit Savannah. We say ‘finally’ because over the years living in Florida, now nine, whenever we made a trip north we promised ourselves that on the return run we would stop in Savannah. But it never happened. By the time we arrived in Georgia we were too anxious to get home and promised ‘next’ time we would do so. So this time we decided on visiting Savannah first and it was well worth even the short time we did so.

“Savannah was born way back in 1733, shaped from the wilderness by John Edward Oglethorpe” It was some sixteen miles from the Atlantic and is high upon a bluff that overlooked the Savannah River. He organized the living area in squares, some 24 of them and they remain so in the Historic District even today. The square are park like with beautiful oak trees with Spanish moss and flowers almost every where. Stately old houses, churches, and shops surround the squares also. Its port brought a solid economy to the area and even today it is the second most active port next to New York and occasionally Charleston, NC. It survived the Civil War and Sherman’s march. He saved Savannah as a “Christmas” gift to Abe Lincoln. Our motel was located on the bluff over looking the Savannah River. It was in the Historical District. We took a walk after settling in the motel and found we were a block from “Jefferson” street, which took us to the City Market. The market ran left and right of Jefferson Street for many blocks each way. We ended up at what we later learned was “Franklin” square where we heard live music being played just next to a large Pizza place. When you look at a map of just the Historic District it is easy to see why at least a few weeks would be needed to see much of it. We spent just 2 and half days. We took a bus tour one day, which was followed by a ride up and down the Savannah River in an imitation steamboat. A good thing about the bus tour was you could leave the bus, visit a place or area, and then go back and wait at another stop for it to come pick you up. We did so and got off at the Andrew Low house, the home of Juliette Low built by her grandfather. She is the founder of the Girl Scouts. The tour of the home was fascinating in seeing all the talents of Ms.Low. She was a sculptor, painter, furniture maker and repairer. We had some one take us through the house pointing out all these talents along with her having brought the Girl Scouts to life. Another stop we made was for lunch at Mrs.Wilkes Dining Room. It served only lunch and was family style. We sat at a round table with three other couples and passed around the dishes. An interesting coincidence was that all those at the table were from Florida and specifically from around the Tampa St. Petersburg area! Later on the same tour we stopped at the Cathedral of St. John the Baptist. It matched for me St. Peter’s and Paul’s of Philadelphia. The Stations of the Cross going up and down both sides of the church were individual sculptured statutes on platforms extending from wall. The stain glass windows and paintings on the walls were magnificent. We were planning on trying to visit the Mercer House, the place where a murder had been committed and the home of Johnny Mercer’s grandfather but it was not open that day. We found the same with Flannery O’Connor’s home that I had expressed an interest in visiting since reading some of her works and about her. Even with the few days we were there you could write a book about Savannah and someone already has, namely “Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil: A Savannah Story” by John Berendt. Browsing through it on my return made me wish I had had it with me during the visit. It made the point that the Mercer House was the home of Johnny’s Grandfather and Johnny had not been raised there, despite some tour guides saying so. It was this house however that was one of centerpieces of Midnight in the “Garden of Good and Evil”. It was in this house that a man charged with murder lived and after three trials was acquitted. He died there a few years later.

At the other end of this volume of travel we went to New Jersey, specifically to North Wildwood. June’s daughter Tracy and her husband Walt had purchased an apartment there. It was a converted motel and very comfortable. It was located on the corner and one block east was the ocean and beach, and two blocks north was the inlet between the Wildwoods and Stone Harbor. We took a good walk one-day on the boardwalk, and on another day I walked the sea wall along the Inlet. It was made of concrete and was about six feet wide. It gave you a great view of the inlet and was supported by enormous stones that made you feel you were walking along a mountain cliff. I watched the sun rise from the wall one morning. It was as they say ‘awesome’. It slowly peeked up over the water and then changed the hues and colors of the clouds. As usual such sights gives one the feeling of the presence of the Almighty being in action.

Between those bookends of our journey we had a sad detour. My nephew Rich McSorley had been fighting cancer since July. He was terminal and under hospice care. As we left Ashland, Virginia for his home on Thursday morning we had hopes we might see him still alive, but it was not to be. We received a call from his brother Gregory around ten that he was now at peace. We arrived at his and Shirley’s home around noon. We met Gregory. I can’t remember when we last saw him. He resembled his dad much more than we remembered. His dad was my brother John. Greg had been there for over a week helping Rich’s wife Shirley. Rich had been like another son to me. We were reacquainted in 1970 in the Sulu Islands. He was attending Notre Dame of Sulu College there. It was founded by my brother, his uncle Frank the Bishop of the Sulu Islands. My sister Marge and I had gone out to Sulu to take part in the farewell ceremonies for the Bishop who died in November of that year. Rich was about 21 years of age then and was finishing work on getting his degree. He had great pleasure I hear over the years showing people his college ring which read “Notre Dame” and then something else which he didn’t bother noting. While we were there after all the ceremonies we took a plane ride to the end of Sulu Island, the island of Sibutu. It is just across the Sulu Sea from Borneo. We, Marge, Rich, Father Chawky, myself and the pilot Ted filled the small single engine prop well. It was particularly noticeable on landings, which usually had at least one bump. When landed at Sibutu Island, school students, both high and elementary greeted us. They were there to greet the returning pastor. However when Rich stepped out of the plane a chant went up that I could not decipher. I later learned it was the name of a then teenage Filipino idol whom they thought Rich looked like. Rich traveled with me to Manila as I started my home voyage. Our paths would cross over the years as we visited him in Lancaster, watched him romance Shirley then marry her, and be his guest at his home there. Sometime in the eighties he and Shirley purchased a house in Shore Acres. His dad now retired went there to live. He died in April 1990. We had come down some weeks prior to that to visit him in the Veteran’s Hospital. Later we came down often to use Rich’s home, particularly in 1994 after I had had a bypass operation. We fell in love with Florida and Shore Acres thanks to Rich and Shirley’s generosity. In 1996 we purchased the home we now live in, though we didn’t move in until September of 1997. So we owe Rich and Shirley for bringing us to Florida, and to this particular area which we now call ‘home.’

In addition to all the above we did have a good week at Tracy and Walt’s home in Ardsley. We watch their son Eric quarterback his 115 lbs. football team, saw son Paul off to practice Lacrosse and watched grandson Dave pack his refurbished truck for his trip back to college. After returning from North Wildwood we had an all day get together at my daughter Mary’s in Yardley with all of my gang. So it was a good trip for the most part but I agreed, as I heard John Denver sing the next day driving somewhere “Oh, its great to be back home again!” Pax Tecum

August 1, 2006

August 2006

The month of August is full of celebrations. There are eight birthdays, three of them for Mary’s, two for Paul’s and our wedding anniversary. It is hard to believe that on this 15th day of August, June and I will have been married twenty-five years! We both remember when we married some whom felt and said “it would never last” We are in many ways the classic example of opposites attracting. I can testify that there were times when our friend’s prediction seemed to be coming true. But thanks to the love abounding in June even at those times it didn’t. A thousand more thanks are due for the care of my health, body and soul. She has nursed me through hospitalizations and sickness at home with the expertise of a professional and the love of a caring wife. She has been responsible for bringing faith back into my life and making it the mainstay of that life. To top all of that off, she’s a great cook. So we will celebrate the occasion with great joy and many thanks. We will pray that the Lord help us as we continue our life’s journey.

Three of my children Paul, Dan, and Mary have birthdays and celebrate another year of being spouses and parents. It has been a comfort and joy to see them succeed and grow. It is the birthday of my ‘favorite’ sister-in-law, Mary Macdonald. She is June’s only sister and our caretaker at her beautiful home in New Jersey whenever we venture north. My sister Mary, a member of the sister of Mercy, has been a sister and friend over the years, especially with her frequent short notes full of news and encouragements. We have a grandson Paul celebrating along with a niece, Winnie and Grandniece, Denise. We wish them all “Happy Birthday!”

Once in a while as you read ideas emerge that you remember from other readings. Sometimes its places or people. They appear in fiction or non-fiction where you least expect it. These experiences make your reading seem more a part of you. They bring forth things you know from your memory. For example, historical figures appear as characters in fiction. like Larry McMurtry’s series of the Berrybender Family. In the first two stories there are a number of such figures from the Lewis and Clark Expedition. There is Sacagawea’s son, called “Pome” and his father Charboneau, the French trader who brought Sacagawea, then pregnant, and took her on the expedition. The same three Indian chiefs are in the novel that went with Captain Clark to visit the American President, Jefferson, after the journey. Charboneau, the furtrader, in the novel, is helping this English Lord find his way and he’s returning the three Indian Chiefs to their tribes. Of course the fiction part is accented in that all of this is supposedly taking place in 1832 nearly 20 years after the Lewis and Clark expedition. In Gresham’s novel “The Brethren”, a Federal Prison here in West Florida is the site of the story though I don’t think he named it. The descriptions made me feel it was the Coleman Federal Prison not too far from St. Petersburg. In the “Philadelphia Story”, the movie and TV show I recall seeing the 100 year old courtrooms where I once practiced law.

Another ‘place’ recall was Cooper Union in New York City. It is located in the Bowery. The Union was created by Peter Cooper. It was by some considered the first vocational/ night school. Its original title was the “Cooper Union for the Advancement of Science and Art.” I leaned that from reading some essays by James Campbell, which were really talks given by him at the Union. Now Cooper Union is just down the street from McSorley’s Wonderful Saloon. A journalist for the New York Post wrote a book in 1943 with that title telling of the founding of the saloon in 1854 and a bit of its history. The stories were about characters that hung out at McSorley’s some of whom were students from the Cooper Union down the street. I visited ‘McSorley’s’ in the late 70’s when I believe my daughter Suzanne was attending Columbia Law School. I went down the street to the Union and found it was now part of the New York State system of schools. In Campbell’s book of essays, which were really talks previously given, I learned that they were given in the ‘Great Hall’ of the Cooper Union from 1958 till 1971. Mr. Campbell mentions in his preface his awe of speaking in such a place. It was “derived in part, of course, from the old fashioned simple grandeur of the Great Hall itself and the knowledge that Abraham Lincoln once spoke from the same stage”. Sometime later reading a biography of Lincoln entitled “Abraham Lincoln: The Redeemer President” by Allen Guelzo, I read about the incident referred to by Campbell. The talk Lincoln gave was considered the catalyst for his becoming the Republican/Whig nominee for President. This happened in February of 1860. In fact the Union was not the first choice for the talk, it was to be given in a church somewhere else in the city, but when that wasn’t possible it ended up at the Union. The New York Tribune stated “no man ever before made such an impression on his first appeal to a New York audience.” Apparently New York audiences were tough to appeal to even in 1860. The talk was given just six years after McSorley’s was opened down the street. I wondered if any of the McSorley’s had attended the appeal by Lincoln. It is pleasant just to think that some of them were that close to Lincoln. I feel certain that my father, if he were here to ask, would have assured me that no McSorley would be attending any Republican appeal. My father was born a mere twenty years after Lincoln’s death and he may have been right. The effect of these ruminations is that such places get a special category in your mind and seemingly make the story or writing more real.

I recently learned something some of you would be interested in, namely, how the game of golf was invented; J.R.R.Tolkien, known for the “Lord of the Rings wrote in “The Hobbit” as follows: “Old Took’s great grand uncle Bullroary, who was so huge (for a hobbit) that he could ride a horse. He charged the rank of Goblins of Mount Gram in the battle of the Green Fields, and knocked the king Golfimbul’s head clear off with a wooden club. It sailed a hundred yards through the air and went down a rabbit hole, and in this way the battle was won and the game of golf was invented at the same moment.”(emphasis added) I later learned that there was such things as ‘hobbits’. In a new book entitled “Language of God: a
Scientist Presents Evidence for Belief” the author head of the Human Genome Project, and a physician, wrote: “Other branches of hominid development appear to have encountered dead ends. The recently discovered ‘hobbits’, tiny people with small brains who lived on the island of Flores in Indonesia until extinction as recently as 13,000 years ago”.

We spent the first week of August (the 5th to the 11th) in a wooden cabin house in the mountains above the town of Blue Ridge, GA. It is about 500 plus miles to Blue Ridge from St. Petersburg, and our cabin was another 13-mile journey on a labyrinth of roads up the mountain. Near the cabin the roads were made of stone two and had two ruts roads. The cabin had a garage, a hot tub, and comfortable screened in porch, two bedrooms, a large living room with a fireplace, a small dining area and kitchen. The idea I had when reading we were going to the town of “Blue Ridge in GA” was that it would be small rustic village. As we approached in on the four-lane highway we passed one shopping complex after another. We passed intersections with arrows pointing to ‘Blue Ridge Downtown’, ‘Scenic Railroad’, etc. This did not fit my image of a small rustic town. The labyrinth of roads up to the cabin became a challenge each time we went up or down. We were so happy when we made it without at least one wrong turn!

The town was composed mostly of antique shops though June and our friend Shirley, who was staying with us, found a great fudge shop! We drove one day over to Asheville, NC to visit the largest single residence in the U.S., the Biltmore Estate. George W.Vanderbilt, the grandson of Commodore Cornelius Vanderbilt, built it in 1895. It is still owned by the family but open to visitors. We heard that the grandson or maybe his father had increase the Vanderbilt fortune to the equivalent today of 96 Billion! It had smoking rooms, gun room, 51 bedrooms, a parlor on each floor, a bowling alley (one of first in America) and pool. The house was surrounded by 8000 acres of green and trees. It was an awesome place. We had heard much about it and were not disappointed with taking a day to visit it. We’ll tell you more about the scenic railroad and Twin Falls of Fanin County next time. Pax Tecum!

July 1, 2006

July 2006

On March 14, 1972 I picked my father up at church. He would attend daily mass, and in fact would attend all the masses from 6:30 AM on, which usually meant one at that time and another around 8 AM. He had been living with us for some time then, I can’t recall when it started but I think it was probably in January of that year. Katherine usually drove him to the earlier mass but somehow this particular day I drove him to church, went for a run then came back and picked him up. He complained of being continually tired mentally and physically. He commented that he was ready to meet his maker. He was then nearly 86 years of age. He would die that day March 14,1972.

We talked on the way home about my running a marathon on March 19th in New York. It was probably only the second New York Marathon. I hadn’t run Boston yet but was hoping to do so in April. He did not really approve the running of marathons though he believed in the benefits of exercise. He himself had walked on many occasions from our home at 4116 Baltimore Avenue to his law office at Broad and Samson Streets in Philadelphia. That is close to some 30+ city blocks and a good couple of miles.

I didn’t learn of my Dad’s death until I arrived home that evening. My sister Marge and her husband Dan were there. Katherine saw him clothed lying in bed with one leg off the bed. She naturally thought he was asleep. But as time went on and she saw he was still in the same position she became apprehensive and sent our son Bill into the room to see if he was only sleeping. He wasn’t sleeping, he had died. Marge contacted an old friend and an undertaker from West Philadelphia. West Philadelphia was where I was raised and he spent most of his lifetime. I went the next morning to the funeral parlor and said good bye. We had a mass celebrated by his three surviving son priests, Dick, Pat, and Jim. The eldest and first-born had died in 1971. He was at that time the Bishop of the Sulu Islands. The church was packed with religious people, nuns and priests. There were several Bishops in the sanctuary. All came to pay their respects to a father who gave eight of his children to the service of God.

The mass and burial were on March 17th; St. Patrick’s Day and he wore a green tie. It was the first time in nearly 20 years that he was wearing anything but a black one. He began that in 1952 when his wife and my Mom died.

We had practiced law in the same office from 1958 till 1966. He then retired and I moved the office from that floor to another in the same building. I had some new associates. We had a partnership of Edward Blake, John Purcell, and myself. We called it “McSorley and McSorley”. We had my Dad listed as ‘of counsel’ so we could use the name. Ed was then assisting the new Court Administrator, Judge Vincent Carroll, for whom he was also a law clerk. So he didn’t want his name in the title. John had just quit working for an insurance company as an adjuster and decided he wanted to practice but didn’t care about his name being in the title. Ed and I had attended law school together. I think John and I had been high school classmates.

I was the only lawyer of the seven sons. My brother Joe started to study it at night but his job and children caught up with him and he never finished. I had passed the Pennsylvania bar exams finally in 1958 while stationed in the Marine Corps at the Philadelphia Naval Base. I had failed it in July of 1954 just after graduating but I did pass the Washington, D.C. exam. This qualified me as an attorney. It gave me a secondary m.o.s. as a legal officer, eligible for JAG. All Marines then had the primary duty as infantryman no matter what education or other non-service qualifications they may have had. I never practiced any military law but did attend the Naval Justice School, in Newport, RI to be qualified under the Military Code of Justice only recently passed by the Congress. I almost became assistant counsel in the matter of Sergeant McKeown. His charges were front-page news; He hired a New York criminal lawyer as his main counsel. He was charged with the death of some Marines. He was a boot camp sergeant and was marching them at night through some swamps that surround Parris Island. Several of them panicked and began to sink into the marshes, etc. etc. I was stationed at Camp Lejeune at that time and a friend, a Major and a lawyer asked me if I wanted to be an assistant in the matter. I thought I would but then I was recommended for an interview with the new Base Commander General, Joseph Earnshaw, USMC as his aide-de-camp. I got that job and had to pass on the assistant counsel offer.

I will always be grateful that I had the opportunity to chat with my Dad on his last day. He had been a great provider. He was not your chummy Daddy type. To him being a parent was one of his duties. It was not anything like the Father and Son relationship these days. He was some 42 years of age when I was born, and I was the seventh son and the thirteenth child! So even if he wanted to go out and throw the football around, or the likes he was beyond the age of doing it. I will always remember the only time he ever saw me engage in an athletic endeavor was in 1947 in the Philadelphia High School Track Championship. My high school, West Catholic High, had won the Catholic league track title and we were competing against Central High, which had won the Public League title. The event was held at Franklin Field, the University of Pennsylvania’s athletic field. I was running the mile. I was the number one miler on the team and had the duty to see if I could pull at least two others along with me so we would finish one, two, and three and garner the most points you could in that event. Prior to the event we warmed up by running around the track a few times and then I went up into the stands to see my Dad. He was shocked at all the running we had done! He thought we should have saved it all for the race. I did win the race and brought along two teammates so we scored all we could in that event. We won the championship. By the time I finished the race and looked up I saw my Dad was getting ready to leave and he gave me a wave good bye.

I did run the marathon in New York on the 19th. My two brothers Jim and Pat came with me. The marathon was all run in Central Park in those days. It started at “Tavern on the Green” and you then did three loops through the park. You passed the starting point twice, in my case near an hour each time, and finished there. Jim and Pat were there to cheer me on as I came by each time to the Tavern starting point. I later learned they had spent the time in between each of my appearances in the Tavern. So I shouldn’t have been surprised when Pat announced that the really enjoyed watching a marathon, his first, and would do so again!

My father’s ancestors as I remember were northern Belfast Irish. If they practiced any religion it probably was protestant. I never heard my father mention his Father’s religion. I know his name was Frank and so the first born of our family a boy was named Frank. I know Dad had two brothers since one was laid out in our parlor when he died of alcoholism. The other was named Edward and was a career serviceman, I think Army. His son Edward came and lived with us for about a year. We were never told why. I believe it was my oldest sister Winifred who told me Dad was a convert to Catholicism. It might explain his martinet manner in living it and having us do so. He was raised in South Philadelphia and that is where he met my mother. He told a story about his becoming a lawyer. He had gone to Central High School. It was even then highly rated academically. How he got in I don’t know. He graduated in 1904 and entered the University of Pennsylvania Law school. He failed. So he got a job at John Wanamaker Store. It was located across the street from City Hall. One day he was ordered to go out onto Broad Street across from City Hall and help empty a truck. He contended it was not his job to do such tasks. Beside, as he would tell his Dad later, he didn’t want anyone he knew seeing him doing such menial work. His boss said either you do it or you’re fired. He said, “I resign”. When he told his Dad how he had lost his job his father said, “You better go back to school and be a lawyer because apparently you’re not going to able to work for someone” So he did and graduated in the year 1909.

These jottings are more like a memoir than my usual ramblings. It seems appropriate that I found my self musing about my dad in the month of his birthday. Until next time, Pax Tecum!