Author: tom

July always reminds me of my father. It was the month of his birthday, the 15th. We would be in Sea Isle City, New Jersey by then. We, our Mother and those children still living at home, would have come to the shore place sometime near the end of June. We were constantly reminded, between duties about the house and beach time, of our obligation to prepare something to recite for our Father’s birthday. Each day our Mom would check to see how we were proceeding with our memorization of a prayer, a verse, a song, or whatever which we would need to recite on that day.

The living room at the shore house was large with a fireplace on the wall to your left as you entered. Opposite the fireplace against the other wall were the steps to the second floor. They ascended towards the wall, about three steps, and then there was a platform about 3 feet square. It made a small stage. Here is where we would perform. I remember having to recite one of the prayers from the Mass in Latin. Another time I recall singing a song with the words, ”Look out! Look out for Jimmy Valentine, he’s a pal of mine an’ he’ll steal your heart away!” I think there really was a Jimmy Valentine, a second-story man or safecracker whose exploits and antics caught the public’s fancy and someone created the song.

The show was another means of our mother, the teacher, making sure we continued to learn something even though we were now out of school. I can’t say I did the same with my children but we did manage to get some time at the shore, usually in Avalon, NJ and had road trips to various places. We did encourage reading but can’t recall any of the five boys following our encouragement. The girls did it even without encouragement.

This July 2005 will be remembered as when I started to return to more normal behavior after eight weeks of recovery from the aorta surgery. I was given permission to drive once again, thus making it possible for June and I to go out without calling on a friend to drive us. This is so because June doesn’t drive. I began a program of physical rehabilitation this past week. It has had a great effect in removing the usual tiredness, though there are still days when I don’t seem to get enough rest. I am looking forward to the exercise and its effects and hope by the end of July to feeling like a new man. These are minor inconveniences when placed against the life saving nature of the surgery. It is a constant reminder of the gift of “life” and how grateful we should be to the Lord for letting it happen.

With that thought in mind, life as a gift from the Lord, it was disappointing to say the least to read an opinion writer praising the legal euthanasia law in Oregon. Under the law if two doctors confirm that the patient has less than six months to live he or she may obtain a barbiturate that will cause death. It is placed in a liquid. It is drunk and within five minutes the patient goes into a coma and dies within two hours. He, the writer, was specifically attacking the Bush Administrations attempt to remove the law by having Federal prosecution of any doctor who prescribed the barbiturate. The issue is now on the way to the U.S. Supreme Court with arguments scheduled for the Fall. The columnist argues that since the law has been in effect in Oregon since 1998, after two referendums, the Bush administration should not attempt to dislodge it because of their belief that it is legal suicide.

The sacredness of life as a gift is demeaned by euthanasia. It is easy to create sorrow and cry for relief of those suffering from death throes. What could be more Christian and human than compassion? Unfortunately such compassion blinds us to the fact that we are permitting suicide and allowing people to end the life they were given and which was not earned. Where did life come from? Did we have any say in the fact that we are now alive? No we did not – so why should we have a ‘right’ to destroy it? We don’t, but compassion makes us believe we do. I think every possible painkiller should be allowed even drugs to alleviate the pain. To allow suicide is beyond our realm of rights.

The patient in this article exclaims, “By God…” but not meaning that it is by God that he is here. It was only as an epitaph to the rest of his assertion, “…I want to go out on my own terms”. He apparently doesn’t believe that ‘by God’ he is here in the first place so that he, not God, can decide when and how he shall go out. It was by God’s terms we are here so why does it seem strange that by His terms we should leave? The opinion writer states, “I’m just sorry the John Ashcrofts of the world want to dictate not only how you live but also how you die. There is nothing more personal, other than childbirth, than passing on” The thought that you had no choice over your birth doesn’t even enter his thinking.

Did we have any part in that decision? Even if you tried to boil the body down to genes and bones you still can’t explain or kill the state called consciousness or spirit we all are given. So why is it strange that we should have no part, other than diminishing the pain, or feelings, in our leaving?

My recent brush with death makes me appreciate even more the gift of life and that the gift giver will decide, not I, when that gift will end. I think euthanasia a nice cover word for ‘suicide’. Using a Greek word is like the using of French words on menus, like escargot, that is to cover its real meaning. Now would you really order “snails” if that were the way they were presented on the menu?

Around the same time this opinion appeared there was an inspirational story about a twenty-year-old girl born with cystic fibrosis. It was entitled
“She‘ll Take Life”. It is about a twenty-year-old who was born with cystic fibrosis. She went on as a teenager to win four American Junior Golf Association titles between 2000 and 2002,played for the 2002 U.S. Junior Ryder Cup and Southern Cup Teams, and with sister Whitney, helped Chamberlain High win State team titles in 1999 and 2000. She also played with Whitney and the University of Florida. She is a talented young woman, who along with her golfing talents received a 1340 on her SATs. She also has the ability to play Beethoven’s Fifth on the piano. Five months ago she almost died in a Denver hospital fighting Adult Respiratory Distress Syndrome, pneumonia, and a yeast infection in her blood stream. It was reported, “… even when nurses tried to murder her (note: not called “euthanasia’ or mercy killing but what it is murder) by dripping poison in her IV, and another nurse kidnapped and harassed her in a hotel room, she never thought it would be better to be dead.” ( I have no further information on the this incident and it is as it was reported in the newspaper in this story)Her great achievement for 2005 was to walk down the aisle at her sister’s Whitney’s wedding as ‘maid of honor’. She did it. She was asked, “Do you ever get mad as hell? What do you think when you watch those girls you beat fighting it out for the U.S. Open?” She admits she does wonder what might have been, but it doesn’t make her sad. Then she was asked “What about God?” She answered, “I never say, ‘why me?’ I took God in my heart when I was 7 years old and ever since then I’ve known that he has a plan and I know I am part of that plan. Sometimes I say, ‘I don’t like this’ But I always believe everything is going to be okay. Somehow I feel that this is all a blessing in disguise…It’s not that I’m waiting to die. I’m not scared of it. Right now I’m just enjoying myself. I’m enjoying every second. Bottom line is that l love life.”

What a difference the miracle of faith brings to a life. How easy it is to appreciate who controls our life. She could, out of so called compassion, be considered a subject for euthanasia—but contrary to the patient in Oregon she would never choose death, she’ll take life even as tough as it is. We admire such courage and love, and feel only sorrow for those who believe they should have a ‘right” to suicide, to end it.

The problem is that for most everything they know came to them through their senses. They examine things based on the experience these senses have given them. They can say, “God is everywhere” They can see his beauty in creation. But they still can’t experience God or a concept like there is life after death. I read a fascinating analogy offering to explain this dilemma. Suppose you could talk to a babe in a mother’s womb? Would your explaining what lies ahead make her (or him) wish to leave the warm security of the womb? Probably not. The babe knows what the life in the womb is by her senses but not what will happen on birth. She or he would be skeptical of what is beyond the security of womb or that it even existed. We fear life after death in the same way as a baby fears life after birth. The author continued, “That’s because our situations are basically the same. We’re still in a womb, still being gestated, except now we call it aging. And inevitable is the day when a new pelvic thrust, death, will awaken, in the deep recesses of our minds and bodies, the memory of just such a push many years earlier. And, as years earlier, a dim passage will promise a new world and, just as the first time, we won’t have much to say in the matter. We’ll have to trust that being born is what’s best for us … Birth and death require the same act of faith, a trust that a fuller life and more meaningful contact with the mother awaits us beyond the womb.”

It is true ‘all analogies limp’ and never fully answer the riddle, but this one struck me as being full of truth and understanding.

Until next time, Pax tecum!

June is the month of graduations and weddings. My June had neither. As I predicted in the May Jottings I was about to go to center stage for a performance, a major performance! It was a life saving one. The bulge in my aorta in the abdominal area had grown and was on the verge of blowing up. So I had to have it contained. There was much testing for a few weeks to see if we could do that without the invasive procedure of cutting me open and going in and fixing it. Those procedures proved to not be applicable due to the location of the bulge in the aorta. It was near the renal arteries and the non-invasive solution would possibly block those arteries so it was eliminated as a solution. We went as my surgeon and an old friend ex-surgeon, Tom West, called it, “the old fashion way” They open you up and the surgeon goes in and fixes the aorta bulge and then sews you up again. I now have, thanks to a by pass in 1994, an incision scar from my neck to my scrotum. The incision was such a sight that one of the nurses noted that I would not be wearing a ‘bikini bathing suit’ any more. I advised her that I think I could live with that loss!

It was a life saving event out of which the Lord lead me and is healing me so that I may continue a few more years to thank Him for his many blessings. My overwhelming memory of the hospital is of the loving care given, starting with June, and then all those with whom I came in contact. The loving care of June made the healing process work despite my impatience and misplaced anger. As I write I am now nearly six weeks from that day, May 17th, and get feeling stronger and better with each passing day. Despite the minor miracle that I am alive, my human nature keeps giving me complaints that in comparison to results gained is nonsense. It reminded me, as I have told many, of the story of the journalist gathered in front of the Ford Theater after Lincoln’s assassination. One of them asks Mrs. Lincoln, “ Now beside that Mrs. Lincoln what did you think of the show?”

It is an interesting aside that we later were referred to an article about the non-invasive techniques for handling my problem. It seems that is not working out in 100% of the cases for various reasons. So we have another and stronger reason for having had the invasive method being used.

The night before the operation, May 16th, we celebrated my 76th birthday. We had daughters Mary and Sue and son Dan here. We went out to dinner atop the Holiday Inn in St. Pete’s Beach. It is a revolving restaurant and gives you a great view of the Gulf, the beaches, and the Bay. It completes one turn in a little over an hour, so your view changes as you eat your meal. It was Dan’s first visit to Florida. He as well as my daughters had come to be with me as I entered the surgery. That night Mary Lou, my stepdaughter also arrived to be with us. Dan then had the surprise of being sent back to Florida on business so he was here on the 30th day of May and able to drive me home. I think his two quick visits have engendered a desire to pay a visit with his family sometime soon!

I have been told that anesthesia sometime effects the memory. I can testify in my case whether from that or some other cause my memory of pain after the operation is minimal. What I will remember for the rest of my life is the caring response of June and family and friends. June doesn’t drive. It required friends daily to bring and take her home from the hospital. It was one more area where the friends, who were and are more like angels, just stepped in and handle the problem. I was overwhelmed with prayers and get well wishes. I counted over 50 cards received as well as numerous personal phone calls and visits to encourage my healing. These memories I will never lose and will be grateful all the days of my life for such friends.

Along with prayers and cards I also received some gifts. I received books from Frank Wick and Jim Doto, both of historical nature. Frank sent me Dave McCullough’s recent production, “1776” and Jim the story of the last days of World War II that led to VE Day. Both made my passing time a lot easier and I enjoyed the information gathered from it. I am a fan of McCullough’s. I have read all of his best sellers and even some not considered such. 1776 has been a NYTimes best seller for three weeks. This book is different from any other of his. It is history of the Continental Army culled from writings compiled by soldiers, officers, wives, British and American. The notes from dairies, letters, or memos tell in themselves what is happening, The comments of the author are minimal and his bringing the matter up to a particular date is all he does. The book is really a written report by the hundreds of members of society in America in 1776 who were partaking of and in the revolution. In the acknowledgments you can see that all of these comments were found in hundreds of libraries all over the world. The compilation and organizing is what the historian did and it results in a very imminent history. I was surprised to learn of the many doubts that arose in Washington’s mind and of the great help he got from so many of his assisting officers. It covers the war from Boston to Princeton. It covers defeats and a few miracle wins as the year-ends. It is by no means a usual David McCullough book but it is certainly a history of the year 1776 as seen by the straggling and struggling members of the Continental Army and their British adversaries.

While recuperating in the hospital after the operation I received the sad news that my brother, Father Jim, had died. He had been in a nursing home for over two years suffering from osteoporosis. He could not sit or stand for any length of time due to the pain from the loss of bone structure and substance in his back. He was receiving pain pills continually. Over the last two years I would call him once a week. It became clear that he was slowly losing his memory and ability to comprehend. He was 84 years of age in March of this year. He was ordained an Oblate priest in 1948 and went to serve as a missionary in the Philippine Islands. I can’t recall how long he served there but in 1970 I had gone with my sister Marge to the funeral of my brother Bishop Frank in the Sulu Islands. The Sulu Islands extends from the end of the Philippines to the coast of Borneo. Frank had spent most of his ministry in the Philippines but ended forming and heading a new diocese or vicariate in the Sulu Islands. After his funeral I returned to United States via Europe. Both Jim and Pat were chaplains with the armed forces in Germany at that time. We had a great visit and left for home late in December of that year. By coincidence I had made a trip to Munich in November of that year with my sister Winifred. I thought it a good idea to return to US via Munich so I could give Pat and Jim a report on the funeral. Jim was always athletic. While in Germany visiting he took me south to a Military R&R resort near an Alp. We went skiing. Well, he went skiing I had difficulty staying upright. Some time later Jim came through Philadelphia on his way to California. He went out to Oakland and served there until his death. His death leaves me as the lone survivor of the seven McSorley brothers. There are still three of the seven girls surviving, Sisters Mary and Rosemary, and Marge.
There is no question that he was living in pain and death relieved him He was always remote and we hardly could be said to have been close. But I do have fond memories of his love for golf and tennis. I was impressed a few years back when he came East for Sister Mary’s 50th anniversary as a nun. I realized that I had never before seen him performing as a spiritual leader. He gave a talk as part of the ceremony and I was very impressed with his delivery and his message. He sent a message earlier this year in effect that that he wished to be with the Lord. He commented to Sister Mary or Rosemary when one of them said they would be out to see him in June, “I hope I’m not here!” and he wasn’t. It is always sad to lose a family member but with his life of service to the Lord I’m sure he is with Him now –out of pain and at peace.

We are spending the month of June in getting whole again. One of the toughest aspects is the loss of appetite and taste. For various proposed reasons this is a normal result of such surgery. When it will return is also subject to frankly a ‘guess’. It results in eating only because you know you must. I have lost weight and don’t wish to lose more. So despite the lack of taste and appetite I work through what ever my loving cook and caretakers places in front of me. One device is to have several small meals a day and we are doing that. But once again considering what has been accomplished with the surgery it is really petty to be complaining about loss of appetite. So with the help of my great caretaker and the Lord I’ll persevere and look forward to the day when once again food will appeal.

Please continue to keep me in your prayers and I thank you all for your doing so. Until next time Pax tecum!

The jottings this month could well be entitled “thoughts while waiting in the wings”. This expression unfortunately and inevitably brings back the memory of Arlen Specter noting, “There’s McSorley still waiting in the wings!” His remark came as Rizzo’s first term was ending and I had been out of office for nearly four years. His tone indicated it was not being said to comfort me, but more to show us all again how successful Arlen was at being on stage and we ‘unfortunates’ had to wait in the wings.

My anticipated time on stage this time is not for a political office either elected or appointed but that of the main character in a play on the performance of a surgery. The surgery is to be on my abdominal aortic aneurysm.

As April 2005 comes to a close, I look back on a month filled with health issues… a month of doctors. It started with muscle and joint aches and pains and ended with me awaiting abdominal surgery. The muscles and joint pains were diagnosed as Polymyalgia Rheumatica or PMR. I also had some skin spots and a rash so my primary physician sent me to a dermatologist as well as a Rheumatologist. The dermatologist discovered one spot that she considered should be surgically removed. So a date for surgery was set for Tuesday, May 3rd. Then came the bombshell on April 22nd, a call from my cardiologist that the latest ultra sound of my aneurysm showed a growth of 1 cm and into the danger area. He set up an appointment immediately with a surgeon. I have had now a CAT scan of the area in anticipation of the surgery. So as the month ends I am awaiting surgery on my face, treatment for my PMR and surgery on my aneurysm. All of which should be somewhat resolved with the next meeting with the surgeon May 2. So April has been a month of doctors, lab tests, and consultations. So now we enter the month of May in which we will celebrate my having become me, referred to as my birthday. I hope by that date, May 16, all these issues of health will be history and thus make it an even more of a celebration.

There is nothing it seems causes more uncertainty in our lives than illness. Where did it came from? What will it ultimately do? When will it, if it will, leave you? Or is this to be with you the rest of your life? What will the treatment do on the one hand to reduce the pain, but produce what are called euphemistically “side effects”? They won’t be side effects when they affect your life and health. Through out all the uncertainty is the hope this medical wizard will bring healing. We have almost instant ‘faith’ in our medical men (or women). It is a faith partly earned and partly bestowed by our hope for relief. “Certainty is the mark of a commonsense life, gracious uncertainty is the mark of a spiritual life” This quote is from a reading I made on the next to last day of April written by O.Chambers. The key, as you can see, is in the ‘gracious’ –ness of your uncertainty. The meaning, it seems to me, is ‘fortunate’ or ‘agreeable’. The Latin word from which it comes—‘gratia’ means which means’ grace, goodwill or favor. The task is then how to be gracious or grateful about not knowing the outcome when it applies to your life. It is only possible through hope, the spiritual gift we call upon daily.

My visit to the Rheumatologist had for me a bit of humor. I had had the pains in my leg muscles and then in other parts of my body for nearly 2 months. We were planning a trip come May so ‘we’ (i.e. June) thought we should check in with the doctor. On hearing the description he ordered blood test and at another visit he informed us the only possible cause was rheumatic. So we got an appointment with a Rheumatogolist. It had to be in some weeks and ended up being the same day as the emergency surgery meeting, April 25th. What was humorous is the way the diagnosis was delivered. I told the doctor I’ve having much pain in my muscles and joints for some time and that it was difficult sleeping. The pains started in my right leg and then eventually spread to my shoulders, my wrist joints, the other leg, etc. He suggested it was PMR but to be sure ordered a blood test, which turned out confirmed this diagnosis. So now I know what I had. Or did I? When I went to find what Polymyalgia Rheumatica was in the medical dictionary, guess what it told me? Just what I told the doctor! Polymyalgia means much or many muscle or joint pains and Rheumatica is a person afflicted with Rheumatism. How revealing these Latin words were to help me know what the disease was! I further learned it comes out of nowhere and can leave in a similar manner. One of the symptoms listed, which I like but haven’t experienced yet, was “Unintentional weight loss”! Then the “Treatment” section got me. It read, “The goal of treatment is relief of discomfort and stiffness. (NO Kidding!) The disease can be very bothersome if it is not treated.” Now there’s a revelation for you if I ever saw one, “very bothersome”. Indeed it is! It is a pain, so who wouldn’t consider that ‘bothersome’ unless he was some confirmed stoic. The treatment is low doses of prednisone, which unfortunately until I get the AAA problem resolved I couldn’t receive. They are corticosteriods which affect the blood so it is understandable I can’t take them .

Another day of testing and a catheterizing of the area produce no clear results. So the doctor is consulting others and will meet with us on May 9th to advise the time and kind of surgery. It seems apparent that the stint idea is now out, and he is talking about a “wrapping” of the area. All of which is not understandable at this stage but will be clarified by the next appointment. (Tune in later for more updates..meanwhile back to the Jottings.…)

For the longest time I have been promising myself that I would read C.S. Lewis’ “Chronicles of Narnia”. Well, I finally did. It was good reading and wonderful trip to another land full of talking animals,trees and figures from mythology. It is not allegory but just an imagining of what and how Christ might appear in another land a lot different from ours. The Lion is the figure of Christ and he visits the land just as we believe He did here and helps to dispel the evils that come to any land. It is a fairy tale. It was like the stories of Harry Potter with the good guys and the bad guys and the good guys winning. (Whose next one comes out in July and millions have already reserved copies!) Now why should an “adult” read ‘fairy tales’? Aren’t they by the nature ‘children’s stories’? As Lewis points out the thought that fairy tales are only for children is a bit of snobbery. What were and are all the stories of the Wild West but fairy tales? The only classification of literature that is, so called, “adult”, is that which is not worth reading anyway, since it usually means it is pornographic. So the alleged intellectual criticism of an adult reading and enjoying a fairy tale is really without any intellectual basis. Looks too at the “Lord of the Rings” another ‘fairy tale’ and its reception certainly was not limited to ‘children’. I consider myself an adult (at least most of the time) and I’m happy to report I enjoyed every one of the seven stories.

My reading took me also to the war in the Pacific via “Flyboys”. It is the story of nine fliers downed over Chichi Jima during the Japanese war. One of them was former President George H.W. Bush, the father of our present President. A submarine rescued him from the waters around the island while the others suffered death and cannibalism at the hands of the Japanese. The author, James Bradley, had written a book about the flag raising on Iwo Jima. His dad was one of those marines. His story was a best seller and one of the readers was a former naval officer lawyer Bert Doran, who had attended the international trial of the Japanese officer who brought about the death of these ‘Flyboys’. It had some gruesome scene of the deaths of some of the men. It likewise gave a great picture of the former President Bush and his sorrow over the loss of his buddies and how lucky he was being saved. Until next time, Pax Tecum!

The past is prologue. A “prologue” is the ‘lines introducing a discourse or play’. The past introduces us with its lines of some explanation as to why we are here and act as we now do. I can’t remember who made this comment or observation, but it came to me as I was working on a project of a present day history. I am creating a report, or history if you like, of how the Church I attend, Lutheran Church of the Cross, arrived in 2005 in the condition it is. I am looking back only 15 years to 1990 when it celebrated its 25th anniversary, or birthday. It is an interesting pursuit.

I have read and enjoyed history most of my adult life. I particularly enjoy history via a biography. It always seems more real and believable by looking at the events of an age through the eyes of a participant. Of course, you are looking through the eyes of the author, who sometimes has his or her own personal viewpoint, but nevertheless it is a view. The idea of a personalized biography originated with “Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson”. At least as far as I know in the English language. Prior to that a biography was mostly a chronological listing of the events in the subject’s life. Boswell altered that by recording conversations and comments by Sam Johnson, which has led for his being considered by some, even a greater figure in English literature and language than Shakespeare. It surprised me to learn that a favorite English author of mine, P.D. James, is a leader in the Johnson Society of London in England. They annually honor him at the Westminster Abbey, the cemetery of the great poets and writers of England.

They lay a wreath upon his grave and say a prayer he created. In doings so, P.D. James spoke on one of the occasions as follows, “ I lay this wreath on behalf of the Johnson Society of London to honour a great Englishman and this country’s greatest man of letters (emphasis added). Samuel Johnson, moralist, essayist, lexicographer, critic, poet, genius of both written and spoken word. We honour him both a as a writer and as a man, remembering his generosity and humanity and the courage with which his great heart endured poverty, frustration, neglect and private pain. With all lovers of the English language, which he celebrated and glorified, we rejoice in the legacy of literature which is his lasting memorial. It is fitting that he should be buried here in the London he loved and among the greatest of our land; fitting too that, on the anniversary of his death, I should end these few words by speaking in his memory the prayer which he himself wrote and offered up before writing: ‘Almighty God, the giver of all good things, without whose help all labour is ineffectual, and with whose grace all wisdom is folly: grant, I beseech thee, that in this undertaking thy Holy Spirit may not be withheld from me, but that I may promote thy glory, and the salvation of myself and others: grant this O Lord, for the sake of thy son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

This quote is from P.D. James’ “fragment of a biography” which she entitled “Time to Be in Earnest”. Those words are a quote from Sam Johnson who had said, “At seventy-seven it is time to be in earnest” She, P.D. is a woman. The P. in her name stands for “Phyllis”. Her novels are detective fiction and her main character is a retired Scotland Yard inspector and a poet. In the book entitled “Time to be in Earnest” she wrote of events in her 77th year of life, from her 77th birthday to her 78th. She doesn’t’ call it a ‘diary’ or a ‘memoir’, today’s most popular kind of history writing. I tried at one time to keep a journal, or diary. It was tough to do. I was therefore delighted to read her comments about such. She noted it takes a good bit of egotism to decide what to include or not include in such journals. This is so even when you know it is not being written in the expectation of others reading it. But the question still arises as to what is “important enough” to place it herein. She writes, “Every day is lived in the present, but also vicariously in the past and one can write a novel of 100,000 words covering one hour of human life. But it seems egotistical to spend the last hour of every day contemplating the minutiae of unrecoverable moments. I say my prayers and am grateful for the comfort of bed” (P.D.James,“Time to be in Earnest” p.74) I tried for two or three years to keep up the journal but slowly found the making the decision what was worth recording more and more difficult till I quit. It is the same in some respects with the suggestions given to me by good friends that I should write a bio or memoir since it is the “in” thing these days. I really can’t bring myself to do it so it will be left undone.

I suppose my surprise at Samuel Johnson being considered the greatest man in English literature by P.D. James was in some ways caused by my memory of how much Johnson castigated the American colonies for their ungratefulness, forgetting or overlooking George the third and Parliaments acts of tyranny towards them.

Memoir writing is the “in” thing these days. It sounds better to call it a ‘memoir’ than an autobiography. I suppose it’s the aura created by the word being in French. It reminds me of fact that we might enjoy and eat escargots but heavens to be! Don’t call them what they are, snails. So people write memoirs and not autobiographies since that word sounds so staid and unhip! It is a growing phenomenon. Recently an essayist wrote of some 28 memoirs being published within the next two years. Some of the titles and works had to do with “How to” write your own. “A host of enablers has arisen, urging everyone who has not written a memoir to do so as soon as possible.” I saw an ad for one such which had this quote, “Memoirs are out modern fairy tales…”

The past may be prologue but life is lived in the present moment. When you begin to look back and you see how the past has shaped the way you are today, the words of Sam Johnson, and the title of P.D. James’ book, make the present very pertinent. It is the “time” to be in earnest particularly if you are near or at that age of 77. You have only “some” time left to do those things your past has hopefully taught you are important. So what has the past taught me? I believe that of all the “things” in life the most important thing is not a thing but a spirit. It is love. Love of others and less love of yourself. Love of wife, children, friends and all those you meet and act with, when and wherever. You learn too that saying it doesn’t make it happen, it takes work in carrying out this lesson of the past.

We ended March and entered April with having the opportunity to express that love with some grandchildren. We visited Disney World with Ron & Mary and their three boys, Alex & Aidan, twins at age 8, and their brother Owen at age 5(?). We met them late Wednesday afternoon by the hotel pool. Thursday and Friday were spent at Magic Kingdom and Epcot. We left of Saturday morning after a good bye breakfast. It was a joy watching the boys with their enthusiasms and interests. They ranged as far as wanting to see “Bill Nye the Science Guy” to getting a ride on the “Fast Track”. On Friday at Epcot while the boys were on a ride. I took Owen for a ride in his stroller. In the course of the tour we came across a small pond fenced off from the sidewalk. The fence was composed of merely two poles and stretched across them were three wooden bars. Owen was fascinated with the stones cluttered around the base of the fence and onwards into the water. He asked to stop and visit. He soon was digging out stones and tossing them in the pond. He loved watching the splash. He spent about 30 minutes in this wonderland for children tossing stones into a pond. It was a good example of a child’s love of the simple things. We had visitors. There was a bird that thought the splash meant food…but soon found out otherwise. There was a small turtle with even a smaller one on his back running about between the larger rocks in the pond. Later in the day Owen asked me to take him back to the “stones”. I couldn’t do so since I couldn’t now remember where that pond was. The incident reminded me of watching children on Christmas morning surrounded by decorations, music, gifts, and wrappings being more attentive to the package and the wrappings, than to its contents.

April 2005 will be remembered in history as the month in which Pope John Paul II died. It will probably also be remembered for the death of Terry Schiavo and the election of a new Pope. We will here at LCC remember it as the month we extended a call for an assistant pastor. All of which are historic events and prologues as to what now is.

Until next time, Pax tecum!

The month of March is referred to in the Sport’s World as one of “madness”. A great number of years ago it was also the month of our annual accounting to the IRS. In those days the “ides of March”, i.e. the 15th, was the deadline for filing your tax return. So the soothsayer’s warning in Shakespeare’s “Julius Caesar”, to “beware the ides of March” made more sense then. I begin these thoughts on that same day in the year 2005.

The month in the past has had its sad times but as well it’s “glad times”. Quickly I recall the joyful news of births of Colleen McS Baker, Hannah McSorley, Matt Golden, my brother Jim, and running brother Bill King. One of the sad ones is the death of my father in 1972. He was then living in our home. He had lived for many years, after my mother’s death, in the home of Winifred and then decided to start allowing others to help by living in their homes. He had only been as I recall with us a few months before the Lord took him to his eternal home. It was sad because I failed to be there when he did so. It is even sadder that I can’t recall where I was that kept me away until nearly 8 PM on that evening, March 14,1972. Unfortunately I was probably at a bar on alleged business but also apparently didn’t call home to inform them of my lateness. If I had I would have learned of Dad’s death. I found my sister Marge and her husband Dan in our living room when I did arrive. It was then I received the news. Katherine had called them when she had ascertained he was dead and couldn’t reach me. She apparently noticed him lying on pillows in his bed fully clothed with one leg on the floor and it appeared he had been reading and the material had now fallen to the floor. She noticed this in mid morning. Believing he was just sleeping she left him undisturbed but as the day wore on and he did not change position she began to fear the truth. When our eldest son, Bill, came home from school she asked him to go in and on doing so he confirmed that Dad, his Granddad, was dead. I regret not being there, but am happy to recall that that morning I drove him to church for the 6:30 Mass. I went for my morning run. I returned around 9 AM to pick him up and bring him home. It was his regular habit to attend both Masses and pray in between. I was still in my running clothes when I picked him up. I had gone for a relaxed run since I was scheduled to run in the New York Marathon on Saturday. On the way home the subject of my running came up and once again, Dad evidenced not a dislike for it but a lack of understanding of need for the extent of it. He was in favor of exercise and had often walked from our home at 4116 Baltimore Ave in West Philadelphia to his office in Center City. His office was on Broad Street (14th Street) so he walked from 41st St. to 14th, close to 30 city blocks. His understanding of the need and use of exercise never led to an organized schedule and competition. In fact, later in that same year with Frank Shorter winning the Olympic Marathon many Americans had that understanding altered and such running became an “in” thing.

I went the next day out to West Philadelphia to the funeral parlor of a friend of Dad’s. There I said my good byes and expressed my regrets. There was a wake for Dad on Thursday night at the church, which was one block from Winifred’s home. We had all attended that church and school throughout our childhood years. There on Friday morning a mass was celebrated by three of his sons in a church full of sisters, priests, and people. He lay in an open coffin before the altar wearing a green tie since it was St.Patrick’s day. The tie was a real surprise since he had worn only a black tie for nearly 20 years since Mom had died in November 1952. Winnie later told the story of trying to find among her husband Paul’s ties a green one. At last she found one and the only one which thus became Dad’s from that moment onward.

The New York Marathon in 1972 was nothing like the grand five counties run it is today. It was all in Central Park and started and ended outside the “Tavern on the Green”. My brothers Jim and Pat, both priests, came along with me to the run. They had been in Philadelphia for Dad’s funeral. I had four brothers who were priests, but we use to have a joke, which went that actually we had two brothers’ priests and two Jesuits. Pat was a Jesuit and Jim an Oblate. It brings back an old Catholic joke about what God doesn’t know. He doesn’t know “the number of third orders of St. Francis and the mind of a Jesuit”. My brothers Jim and Pat enjoyed the idea of having a tavern at the finish and starting line. As I made the circle returning after about an hour to the same spot outside the Tavern I had them to cheer me on. My brother Pat later averred it was the best way he could imagine for watching a three hours race. He, like Dad, could see a lot better ways to spend three hours rather than running in circles—even among and through a beautiful green country. He at one time espoused an idea of another learned man, whose name I can’t recall, who said when ever I am inclined to do any physical exercise, I immediately lie down until the feeling passes. Later June and I would return to the Tavern on the Green which was by then a new place. It had become a glass surrounded dining area that gave one a great sight to enjoy while having a meal.

Now March in Florida brings visitors. We have already had a week of Bill and his son Matt. The spent most of their days watching baseball games. Both are avid Phillies fans and both equally hate the Yankees. The spring training games, or Grapefruit League, brings Bill down whenever his job lets him do so. As I write we have daughter Sue, her husband Tom and two of their beautiful girls, Colleen and Meg visiting. They too enjoy the baseball games and when the eldest Kate is with them and they are able to obtain tickets, go see those terrible Yankees. I myself never was a baseball fan since I found it as exciting as watching grass grow. But as the Old Latin adage admonishes, ‘concerning taste let there be no dispute.’ The month will close with us visiting Disney World with daughter Mary, her husband Ron, and their three young men, Alex, Aidan, and Owen. We look forward to having young people on our return to visit the Magic Kingdom since it is a place for children. In fact, someone suggested that to really enjoy it you should have a child along…and if none are readily available then maybe they should have “rent-a-child” shop set up there to provide one. So as I have noted the “ides” of March brings joy as well as sadness in creating new memories each year as we enjoy living in the beautiful land called Florida.

Once a year, usually in this month, I attend a luncheon with other graduates of West Catholic High School for Boys and Girls of Philadelphia. The school, when I attended, was two schools in different locations on Chestnut Street in Philly. It is now combined and is located where the Girls high once was located. These luncheons of such graduates have been going on in Florida for at least the last ten years. There are now such luncheons on both coasts of Florida. This year there were five on each coast. We had in attendance 48 graduates who included in their number some husbands or wives of the graduates. The purpose of the luncheon is to recall those days long ago and witness via video or talks on the progress of the present West Catholic High School. It is part pitch and part celebratory. The school is maintained on endowments and gifts. Only half the students are Catholic in religious affiliation and majority is Afro-Americans. It still has as we did some Christian Brother teachers, some nuns, but mostly lay teachers. They have produced outstanding students, one who this year after being admitted to the University of Pennsylvania won a scholarship to the Wharton School. I am still amazed that a high school should even have such a gathering thousands of miles from its home in Philadelphia. I know of no other High School having such. It is not surprising to see alumni meetings and luncheons of Universities and Colleges but never of High school. It is unique.
The word March comes from the word Mars, the Roman God of War. Two years ago this March we went to war. I recall writing then how we had to trust the judgment of our President. Since that time a number of questions have been raised about the evidence claimed to be the reasons for our entry into a war with the agreement of but a few nations. Now it appears the WMD, in the form of nuclear weapons, have been ascertained to exist in at least two nations, Iran and North Korea. Now our “go it alone” policy and our loss of international agreement are seemingly hindering a solution. We once again must trust our President as apparently most Americans do, since he was reelected. But it is a lot harder this time around. Pax tecum!

Just about a year ago in February of ‘04 I noticed a book review in the Philadelphia Inquirer of a book entitled “The Serenity Prayer: Faith & Politics in Time of Peace & War.” The title Serenity Prayer struck a note. I was familiar with serenity prayer as a member of AA. In the review I discovered that the prayer as I knew it on the AA handy pocket card was different from the one printed here. It further indicated the book was about the author of the prayer, Reinhold Niebuhr. He was a minister and professor at Union Theological Seminary in New York, among other things. I had always thought that the prayer had been written by St. Francis of Assisi. (In reading the book I found the statement: “Catholics everywhere believed the prayer was written by St. Francis” p.302) In fact that thought was confirmed when one day at the Post office I had the book and I put in down on the counter in front of the clerk as I went for my wallet. He said, “Hmm..Serenity prayer?” I said, “Yes, the book is about the man who wrote it” He said “Francis of Assisi?” I told, “no, but that I had thought likewise.”

The name “Reinhold Niebuhr” rang a memory bell. I couldn’t recall immediately where I had heard his name before but in reading the book, I could see many places in the media where I may have seen it. He was an active Christian minister in the social and political problems of his day. He was an outspoken critic in the years before the World War II of the isolationists. He had relatives in Germany whom he denounced for the support of Hitler despite their being Christian ministers. The more I read the more I was certain that his name had come up as a member of Christian organizations fighting Christian leaders supporting isolationism and ignoring other social evils in America. The book was written by his daughter, Elizabeth Sifton who for more than 40 years has been associated with book publishers. The prayer as publicized by AA went like this: “Gods grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen.”

The prayer as composed originally had these thoughts: “Gods give me the grace to accept with serenity… and the courage to change the things that should be changed..” The author thought the AA’s rendition watered down the idea of what “should be changed” to “can be” and of course removed the very theological word “grace.” Her whole book was about her father who practiced trying to “change” things he thought “should be” changed. He believed that Christianity was not limited to church going and religious socials nor was it just an entertainment and an emotional exercise. He saw the message of Christ to be one demanding action in the world in any and every way we could to change the lives of those less fortunate and subject to the despotism of political tyrants. He would have made a man like Thomas Paine happy. Paine had rightly complained about the ministers of Christ in his day ignoring the despotic leaders. His only mistake was to attack the Bible (“The Age of Reason”) and not the source of the evil, resulting in not helping to remove those who supported the despots. The author refers to another of Paine’s and the skeptics of today’s favorite quotation: “Unless I see in his hands the print of nails…etc. I will not believe.” She agrees his skepticism in understandable but notes he and others ignore the quote of Christ just eight days later to the disciple, where he says: “Thomas, because you have seen me you have believed: blessed are they that have not seen and yet have believed.” Thomas believed so well he gave his life for the message. He was certainly influenced by all those around him who had not pierced Christ’s wombs with their hands as he went through life teaching and living his message.

The author refers to her father’s feeling about the way the message is given in his day and now even today, with too much flourish and little real concern about devotion and the social problems of the day. She referred to the practices as, “High decibel religiosity, with its excellent profit margins and growing political clout in the new century is drowning out true religion all over the country and the voices of the genuinely devout cannot be heard.(p.153)” She referred specifically to Robertson and Falwell.

Being reminded of my AA connection had me recall that it was now over 12 years since I quit. I remember in 1992 being in doubt that I really needed AA since I was still running long distance races. The doubt was soon dispensed with and I look back on that decision as one of the many blessings brought into my life by June. Sometime in ‘93 I learned from the running that I had also inherited another “McSorley” trait -a clogged blood vessel. It required a bypass operation in 1994. Around that time there was a great deal of publicity about cholesterol and how to lessen its bad effects. A running friend, a retired cardiologist and writer, George Sheehan, had about that time written an article on the proper ratio to seek of bad vs. good cholesterol. He stated in jest, that one sure way of having the best ratio was to be a marathon-running-alcoholic. Apparently heavy aerobic exercise when combined with booze gives a big increase in HDL (Good cholesterol) but of course your pancreases, liver or brain might object rather quickly and decide to quit working. George was not a frequent marathon runner but at shorter distance was a real champ and winner of many awards for his races. He held the mile record at one time for his age group. He was the Medical Editor of the “Runner’s World Magazine” and wrote a column each month. He wrote so well it made an amateur like myself envious. It wasn’t just medical thoughts. He was quick with quoting and using the ideas of men as diverse as CS Lewis and William James, and as well known as Plato, Thoreau, Emerson, and Nietzsche. He loved running and sold it very well. I did have him speed pass me in the Asbury Park Marathon in the late 70’s. After I finished I went over to congratulate him on his fast finish but he was busy with nausea and vomiting. He said then, he should stick to the shorter distances which when he did he usually placed among the top masters. He had been 1500-meter champ in college, which I believe was NYU. . In 1986 he learned he had inoperable prostate cancer.

I last saw him in ‘92 as a speaker at the Atlantic City marathon. He was selling his latest book, “Personal Best” an anthology of his columns. I had him autograph mine and still read some of essays. He died in November 1993.He used his slow leaving of life as subject for his last book “Going the Distance”. This book was prefaced by Robert Lipsyte, a New York Time sports writer. He said this about George: “George Sheehan was angry with getting cancer, but not surprised. He had never said he would live longer, only better” I couldn’t agree more. I found that the daily exercise and training helped me to live better. There is no better way to lose the tension and sometimes depression of daily living problems than aerobic exercise. I am more limited in my doing so due to age, an aneurysm, and the by-pass, but I still when not wiped out with some other ailment, try to continue doing so. I am happy to hear that many of my children are finding the same by having running in their lives.

February 2005 brought us another example of the circle of life – from joy to sorrow. The joy was in witnessing my son Paul entering the state of matrimony with Janine Doyle. In addition to gaining the love of Janine, Paul got a bonus in the gift of an eight year old beautiful girl named Kristen. The service was held in St. John’s the Evangelist Church in down town Philadelphia. It is a gothic cathedral like structure built in 1830. It has majestic stained glass windows and marble sanctuary, which added an imminent aura of worship to the place. The service was conducted by a cousin/friend of Paul’s Msgr. Robert Carroll. He was assisted by Paul’s brother-in-law, Thomas Baker, husband of Sue McSorley and an ordained Deacon. The service had an added touch in that after Paul and Janine had publicly expressed their vows of love to each other they had a ceremony with daughter Kristen. She had walked down the aisle with her mother in an identical gown and carrying the same flower. She read the scripture reading from the lectern/pulpit in the sanctuary. She read in a clear voice and with perfect enunciation. It was a passage from Jeremiah, a book of the Old Testament. Then as noted when Paul and Janine had completed their exchange of vows they stood with Kristen holding their hands and hers and recited vows to be loving and caring parents for as long as they lived. It was a touching moment and a few tears of joy were shed.

We had wonderful celebration from about four P.M. on in an old mansion in Northeast Philly called “The Glenn Foerd” We danced, we ate, we had a joyous and memorable time. Joy was abounding about that hall as we launched the ship of Paul and Janine into the sea of matrimony. We wished them God’s blessing, guidance and comfort in all that would meet on the way.

The sorrow came as February neared its end. Rita Allen Shapiro succumbed to liver cancer after a long hard fight. She was the “Number 1_ granddaughter of my Mom and Dad. She was the oldest child of Winnie and Paul Allen. She was number one in many other ways in the way she lived. She left with two boys and came to Florida alone. Educated herself and raised those two boys alone. She has left behind a loving husband, two fine boys and two wonderful grandchildren. She will be dearly missed.

Until next time, Pax Tecum_

The past is memory. The memories of 2004 will be of Nature and its awesome power. As I write these words, the toll from the tsunami in Asia is now estimated to be 150,000 dead. Just reading the figures reminds us emphatically how blessed we are. We had a year of hurricanes in Florida from July through November. We evacuated in one case and watch the water slowly work its way across our lawn in another. But with the year ending calamity of the tsunamis it made our hurricanes look like little wind storms. The only comparison many could think of is a nuclear attack. More than 200,000 died in the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings in 1945. The death count could be even close to that if the diseases feared take hold and begin their killing. I was surprised to learn that there was a disaster with more deaths than this. It was in October of 1887 when the Yellow River overflowed in China killing some 900,000 people.

We in America have in normal times so much to be grateful for that this added lesson comes home dramatically. On a personal level I am grateful for another year of good health both for myself and June. Even though 2004 brought a break in the routine with our travels to and from Philadelphia we still managed to stay well. At the New Year’s eve service we read the 90th Psalm which reminded us the “Seventy years is the sum of our years, or eighty if we are strong” Having reached the Biblical age plus is a good reminder of our own mortality. The Psalm also has a great wish, “Fill us at daybreak with your love, that all our days we may sing for joy.” It reminds me of what we all wish each other in our new year’s greeting of “Happy New Year” We wish you happiness and days filled with love and joy. But what is “happiness?” The concept differs from person to person. We all want joy and contentment. But we seemed to keep looking for it without permanent success. It is the striving for it that may make life “interesting” never the less the results are always momentary and fleeting. We remember well those happy times and try as we may to make it so, the memory never is as enjoyable as when it occurred. The secret is that we are made this way so as to continue to seek eternal happiness and the means to get there. Try as we may to deny it our mind and memory will never let us reach that goal, unless we shut them both down and accept the idea we will never be permanently happy here. When we ignore this we find ourselves continually seeking it in new things, or new hobbies, or new something else. We may even then take chemicals to relieve that feeling, but it only works temporarily. But we do wish you a ‘real’ happy new year, one filled with the joy of seeking the purpose of living. I agree with a thought I read in Augustine that our hearts will never rest until they rest in you Lord.

Meanwhile, back at good old USA, we find seekers. There was a headline which read, “Resolved: To Do More, Or Less, Or Something.” Beneath this headline is the phrase “Guides to self improvement can’t agree on whether to go faster or slower on the road to happiness” The article by Warren St.John notes the separate camps or ideas for the ‘right’ road to happiness. One suggests, “Stop and Smell the Roses”, and others suggest “Time is Money (or Success = Happiness). The methods suggested are logical contradictions but demonstrate a market for how to do it books helping us to seek happiness. What both methods, the slow or the fast, miss is a definition of “what is ‘happiness’?” Is it dependent on success in worldly goods or is it a serenity of the mind feeling complete? Before you can get on the road to happiness you must find where you are going . . . what is your destination? Once you know that then you can lay down the road and then decide at what speed you want to get there. The titles of some of the books are: “How a Worldwide Movement Is Changing The Cult Of Speed”, “The Lazy Way to Success”,”Getting Things DONE”, “Turbo Coach: a powerful system for achieving breakthrough career success”. All of them clearly suggest that career success equals happiness. No doubt achievement gives one a feeling of happiness, but does it stay? Isn’t there just another challenge ahead? The “success” is momentary not permanent. The articles emphasis was not on the subject matter of the books, except to show the contradiction in their methods of solving the problem. The main point of the article was that there is a great market for such books. He noted it was so great that there is “a Library of Congress” number of books being published to show us the road to happiness. The market indicates that people are still looking but are they looking in the right place?” Some thoughts I have read about happiness indicate how momentary it can be and how we should enjoy them. One from C.S.Lewis indicates their fleetingness, “I again tasted Joy. But far more often I frightened it away by my greedy impatience to snare it, and even when it came, instantly destroyed it by introspection, and at all times vulgarized it by my false assumptions about its nature ” (CS Lewis, “Surprised by Joy”, p.69) Another is, “I have discovered that all unhappiness of man arises from one single fact – They cannot stay quietly in their chambers”(Pascal)

Another memory was revived by a report of a new TV “reality” show. It was entitled “Where’s Daddy?” The show has an adopted daughter attempting to pick out her birth father from a number of men. The author notes that the ending will certainly be the daughter and birth father reuniting. It is as the writer says turning an “emotional issue” into “game show schlock” My past was blessed with work in adoptions. My practice of law involved representing petitioners in the adoption process and also placing children with couples searching for a child. So I could agree with the comment that “thousands of others (searching parties) have learned that in real life adoption searches don’t always end like TV shows with a tears of joy and a pots of gold.” No they often end in the frustration of dead ends or learning that the natural parent, man or woman, don’t wish to have their connection exposed.. In Pennsylvania when I practiced there was a modification in the law that permitted a natural parent to include in adoption file a request that a search for them not be permitted or that the don’t wish their identity to be disclosed. It also eventually allowed medical records of the birth parents to be released but with the identity removed.

Florida has a state run adoption registry which may have this prohibition as part of its system. All the article mentioned was it “worries” adopting parents. Some of the quotes in the article regarding success in the search brought back memories of the practice. My father, also a lawyer who handled adoptions, had comments to an adoptee seeking his birth parent that stay with me. In one case, the seeker was now over twenty, was out on his own and had left his adoptive home. My Dad questioned him about his love for his only known parents and in effect he said who really is your mother and father? Isn’t it those who raised you , cared for you, etc.? Usually it satisfied the seeker in that when he thought about it he realized he had only one real mother and father. There was a quote in the article, from a seeker .It was one who had succeeded and which brought my father’s comments back to mind. He, the successful seeker, explained, “It’s a void in your life; it’s a hole in their hearts. You know who your family is, right? See, they don’t” My thought on such an idea was ‘genes don’t make a family or a father or a mother’. I know cases where the father left the mother pregnant, she gives birth, marries and the child or children are raised by a loving father. In one case, even though they know who their natural father is, they had no doubt who was really the”father”. A ‘father’ or ‘mother’ is one who loves you as you grow and makes you the man or woman you are today – not the abandoning gene parent who may have even done so because he or she loved you so much they knew that the best way for you to be taken care of would be with adopting parents. Adoption searches are still with me today nearly ten years since I retried from practice. I have two files open now in searches for information from a 1961 and 1967 adoptions. The odds are that if they are successful the parties they are seeking will be deceased. In addition there is the problem that most of my adoptions arose from the Catholic Social Services’ home called St.Vincent’s for Single mothers. The home no longer exist and where the records are I have no idea. But we will continue to do all that we can, until next time –Pax tecum!

As you can see from the above title we are combining our Jottings for November and December. It is because by the time we arrived back in Florida almost half of the month of November had passed. During the last half of the month we had the additional problem of our computer not working. The problems with the PC are now somewhat resolved but we are now convinced that we need to upgrade the processor after 6 1/2 years of use.

The return to our home and all its comforts was one more reason for us to give “thanks”. It reaffirms the message of the old adage, ‘there’s no place like home’. Mary Lou progressed sufficiently to join us for the holiday. We also had Mike and his family and our good friend Shirley and her grandson Matt. Mary Lou came in on Tuesday before the big day and flew out on the following Tuesday.

We were sitting around a table chatting. Old friends, some former runners like myself, who hadn’t seen each other for some time. It seemed natural to talk about the past, about things we did and didn’t do, which we liked to remember. So it happened that I was led to talk about my brother John and his past. He was known to some of these friends as a track official, particularly for work at the Penn Relays. Some I believe even knew he was an ex-Marine. But they had never heard, as I told them, about his miraculous survival on Guadalcanal in 1942 and his adventure later in the Philippine Islands. It is a story that supports the old saying “truth is stranger than fiction”.

John was a Marine in the landing at Guadalcanal. It was the major turning point in the war in the Pacific. The Marines landed in August 1942 and it was finally secured in January 1943.A short time after landing his platoon was seemingly surrounded and his buddies were falling all around him. He found himself on the ground watching Japanese bayoneting Marines. As they neared him he closed his eyes and prayed. He then opened them upon hearing firing and found the enemy had fled. He was taken with others to a medical center. He had survived! He had minor wounds but was ordered out of the area and back to the States. He was given the choice of going to any other part of the Corps and he chose the Marine Air. He went to Pensacola with the idea of flying but didn’t make it as a pilot. He was trained as a gunner /photographer on a Douglas dive-bomber. It was in this capacity that he next found himself in the Philippine Island engaging in the cleaning up of guerillas still fighting in different parts of the Islands. MacArthur as he promised had “returned” in September of 1944. The city of Manila and the area around it of Luzon was soon once again in American hands. But scattered about the lower islands, especially the island of Mindanao, the Japanese survivors were still active as a guerilla force.

I wrote part of this while sitting at Rich’s computer in his home in North East, Maryland. Rich is a son of John. While writing it I could hear explosions coming from the Aberdeen Proving Grounds some 15 miles away. It seemed appropriate that as I wrote about the war I could hear echoes of it. I discussed the story of John with Rich. He reconfirmed what I had heard. John returned to America in 1946. John did not often mention this episode and I believe I first heard it from another brother, Joe or from my eldest sister, Winifred.

The Philippine Islands played a major role in the life of our family. When John found himself there, he knew that somewhere on those islands he had two older brothers. (Dick in his autobiography states that John for this reason had requested duty in the Philippines.) Frank had arrived in 1939 and was a missionary priest in the lower part of island of Mindanao in Cotabato. The other brother was Dick who was teaching, as part of his Jesuit training, in a school on the western side of Luzon at a place named Naga. By the time of John’s survival in Guadacanal they were both prisoners of the Japanese. The Japanese had transported Frank in early 1942 to Manila and then to the Santo Tomas University, now an internment camp. Dick was taken from Naga by them to Manila and was interned at the Ateneo de Manila. He learned that Frank was interned at the University. Prior to that Dick was in house arrest, which was a great deal better than when he was confined with the other Jesuits in a jail in Naga. Still later he and others were transported to Santo Tomas. While sitting on the basketball courts with many others before a stage Dick knew his brother was around here someplace. The Japanese were calling out names and you had to respond. So after having responded Dick wondered if there was some way he could contact Frank. The name-calling ended and then he saw him! He was pushing a wheelbarrow full of watery rice. Behind him walked a Japanese soldier with a rifle and fixed bayonet. Frank, when he reached the middle of the basketball court set down the wheelbarrow and turned to the crowd and shouted “Dick! Where are you?” Dick jumped up and said, “Here I am”. The soldier began beating Frank with the rifle. He said, “Don’t worry about this monkey. I’ll see you in few minutes” Sure enough after Dick sat down Frank came from behind him and sat down. He was one of the “Food Managers” of the camp so he knew how to get around. They talked for an hour. Dick learned news about the family, like one of his sisters had gotten married, another entered the convent, a brother had joined the Marines and another the Navy. After Dick ate he was packed up again and shipped out by train to Los Banos about 2 hours south of Manila.

Los Banos was by this time “Internment Camp #2” and held about 2500 prisoners. It had 250 Japanese guards. Dick awoke on January 6, 1945 to find the guards had left. They dug up a hidden radio and listen to the news. They expected that the American forces would land in the nearby gulf, which had been the landing area of one of the Japanese attacks. The guards however returned. Then on the morning of February 23rd American planes flew low over the camp. Soon in the darkness of the night they saw paratroopers floating in the air towards earth– thus began a dramatic rescue. After the guards had been chased Dick with others were hustled in to amphibious tanks, called “alligators”, that had worked there way up the river that ran near and by the camp. They were taken to a landing down river and put on trucks. They were then taken to a Filipino prison camp at Munting Lupa. About a week later Dick heard the loud speaker belting out, “Is there anybody here named McSorley? A soldier is looking for you outside the Mess Tent” Dick goes to the entrance of the Mess Tent and is embraced by a soldier whom he knows is one of his brothers but must ask him his name! So Dick meets John, the Marine, a mere child when Dick had left some six years before.

John had apparently learned of where Dick might be from Frank. He now drives Dick back to Manila. Dick then learns that John was in one of those planes that flew low over the camp photographing it before the assault. When they get to Santo Tomas and meet Frank, he seeks out a media reporter and thus on the front page of a Philadelphia newspaper appears of a picture of the three brothers. I remember the joy in our house for having confirmation of the fact that the two eldest brothers had survived. The Red Cross could never confirm for my Mom and Dad where exactly they were and whether they were alive. They received little or no help from the Japanese.

Dick heads home. John heads with his air group to the southern islands to continue rooting out the guerillas. On one of his mission a 40-mm shell shoots down the plane. The pilot and he survive. On the Douglas dive-bomber the pilot and the gunner/photographer sit back to back. The shell hit the rear of the plane and John legs, facing the rear, received most of the explosion.

The medical treatment recommended for him is the amputation of one of his legs. He is transported to Manila for the operation but Frank learns of it and the amputation is prevented. John spent the rest of his life with leg problems but as he often said it was a lot better than having a fake one. He is sent to the States. He is awarded a “Purple Heart” and was then on his way to discharge. Once again “He had survived!”

As a footnote to the McSorleys in the Philippines some more of the family went there. Jim after his ordination was a missionary priest in the province of Cotabato and Joe as a naval officer during the Korean War ended in Manila Bay. John’s son Rich, whom we mentioned before, attended Notre Dame of Jolo, a college founded by his uncle Bishop Frank from the years 1969-1971. With credits transferred from two years at West Chester College he graduated with a BA in History. Jolo was the capital and largest island of the Sulu Islands. Marge, my sister, and I went out to the Philippines in 1970 to participate in the burial ceremonies for our brother Frank, then the Bishop of Sulu Islands.

We wish you all the joy of Christmas and many blessings in the year to come! Pax tecum!

A look out the window into the back yard shows me leaves covering the grass. There are brown ones, yellow ones, red ones, purplish ones, some completely without color, showing that fall has arrived. As you can guess, I am not looking out the window on Shores Acres in St. Petersburg, since we have no sycamore or oak trees shedding their leaves. I am looking out the window in my son Paul’s duplex in Philadelphia. Once again we are here to support and help Mary Lou through major surgery. She had a large portion of her pancreas removed on Monday September 27th in a ten hour operation. She left ICU after two days and as we enter October we hope that by the 8th or 9th she’ll be well enough to go home and begin her recovery period. As I put together our thoughts for these October jottings we’ll add any information we can about her recovery, and our heading back to that eternal green of Florida and Shore Acres.

In the 90’s from my readings of history, especially American History, I wrote some essays on how history might have been altered had a certain incident not occurred. For example, if certain person was l present when this or that happened but because he or she wasn’t there, things went the way we recorded it. The subjects included Thomas Jefferson, and his writing of the Declaration of Independence; Andrew Hamilton, whose conduct gave rise to the expression, “Get Philadelphia Lawyer!”; and the midnight ride of Paul Revere. The essays were published in a civic association’s newsletter. All of which is by way of telling you that I thought this was an original idea until recently, when I found a review on a book of essays entitled, “What Ifs? Of American History” using in the same idea. Then I found this was the third volume of such essays—so much for my “original” idea!

In addition the novelist Philip Roth has just published a pseudo-biographical novel entitled “The Plot Against America”. It is about his family and their living after the election of Charles Lindbergh as President in 1940 instead of Roosevelt. Lindbergh establishes diplomatic relations with the Nazi regime. As you can see using imagination with the facts of history opens up endless ideas. I had called my essays “Historic Twists” but “What If?” sounds like a better idea. The forward of the essay volume points out that it is more than entertainment to conjecture what might have been if—-. It educates us in the value and purpose of what one person or circumstances can do, and did. (In this time of a Presidential election it is a reminder of how much one vote can count.)

My original “twist” or “what if” regarded Thomas Jefferson and the writing of the Declaration of Independence. The fact is he really didn’t want to go to Philadelphia for the Congress. He was more interested in continuing his work on the Virginia Constitution. He did go as a delegate arriving on May 15, 1776. By that time Massachusetts and Virginia via John Adams and Richard Henry Lee had introduced a motion in May 1776 that a declaration of our separation from Britain should be made. It was already a fact. The separation had happened in that Lexington and Concord had been fought in April. Military action had also begun in the state of New York. Shortly after Jefferson arrived, Lee learned that his wife was ill and he had to return to Virginia. The motion for a declaration had passed the congress and committee was to be formed to draft it. Virginia being one of the original movers was to have a member on such a committee. Thus it was that Jefferson was selected. So Lee’s absence made Jefferson a member of the committee. It is probable that even if Lee had been there because of Jefferson’s writings including a list of complaints against the Parliament, he might have been chosen anyway. Both those colonies had via their legislatures had passed declarations. Virginia’s written by George Mason on June 12,1776, encompassed most of the complaints in the Declaration. But it is easy to imagine that it could have been otherwise. The declaration was revered by Jefferson a few years after it was written. He wanted it included as a proud accomplishment on his gravestone. It was for several years by an “unknown” author. It was initially so that the party would be free from Tory or British personal attacks, and later it remained so until its success began to make it a document of which to be proud . In fact too, as Jefferson listened to the Congress take his declaration to task he sat there in quiet anger and soon began asking to be sent back to Virginia. His wife too had become ill and he returned in September. It is a good bet that his and the other compilation of complaints against Parliament would have still made up the body of the Declaration. The main difference was the preamble and the complaints for the first time being made against the King. So maybe these two factors or parts of the Declaration might not have been there.

*****

The month of October is half way gone. We are still here in cold Philadelphia. Mary Lou came home, to her little apartment, on October 12th and has progressed in her recovery with some ups and downs. We keep hoping all will be well enough with her that we can head south in early November. But as the say, “Only time will tell”

*****

Over the years I’ve heard the comment “He’s a Philadelphia lawyer”. The idea being that there was something different, or special, about a lawyer from Philadelphia. Unfortunately as I proceeded in practice the connotation I learned inferred not so much special as not too honest.

The reference to a “Philadelphia lawyer” came from early American history. There was a time in the colonies that when ever someone needed a lawyer, they were told to “Get a Philadelphia lawyer!” The good lawyer who created this expression by his acts was Andrew Hamilton. He is not to be confused with Alexander Hamilton, the first Treasurer of United States who served many years later in that office.

The colonies were not only separate states but in some case like separate kingdoms. One that qualified in the early 1700’s for this title was New York. It was run by William Cosby, no relation as far as we know to Bill Cosby. Governor Cosby ran the state as a “Royal Colony”. The Chief Justice of the Courts had a disagreement with his Majesty, Governor Cosby, and so he was summarily fired. The Justice, whose name was Morris, wanted to get back at the Governor/King so he with a few friends hired a printer named Zenger. Zenger printed a newspaper and they express the views and opinions in it about the Governor. The only other newspaper published was of course one under the auspices of the Governor and didn’t dare taint his reputation regardless of the conduct. Morris and friends proceeded to write details of the chicanery of his Majesty and as a result the publisher was indicted for “seditious libe”. This happened in 1733. After 10 months in prison he hired Andrew Hamilton and a trial was ordered in 1734. Hamilton offered what was a unique defense, namely, the truth of the allegation as written is not libelous where the alleged victim is holding public office. The Trial Judge, quite naturally being an appointee of the Governor, refused to let the evidence of such be introduced. However, the jury was apparently so impressed with Hamilton’s words and the proposed defensethat they acquitted Zenger. The case was a landmark one in American Legal History for freedom of the press. We wonder, in keeping with the idea of “what if”,if the jury had found otherwise would we have ever heard of Zenger or the Philadelphia lawyer? I doubt it. Nor would we certainly ever have had the setting apart of a Philadelphia lawyer from any others. The issue was really not decided in a strict legal sense since the court refused to admit the evidence, but it came it came into our law as the result of others using it in the more liberal colonies and states to protect newspapers from the misconduct of Public officers. Free speech in the Press got its start in 1734 thanks to a Philadelphia lawyer.

“Listen my children and you shall hear of the midnight ride of Paul Revere…”

The legend of Paul and his ride to warn of the British were coming to the Sons of Liberty, could easily be considered as a “what if”. The facts in the poem were composed largely of fiction. It is like Hollywood handling of history. The fact is Paul never made it. He was captured. He was under orders to get word to the Sons of Liberty leader, Sam Adams. They, the British, apparently were after a cache of arms and supplies hidden by the Sons. Fortunately for Paul he had met another Bostonian, Dr. Samuel Prescott, along the route to whom he explained his mission. He, Prescott, went on after Paul’s capture and warned Adams and his militia. But Paul Revere and his ride as created by Longfellow is now remembered, while two other truly historic rides which accomplished their mission are forgotten. One was by Jack Jouett. He rode over forty miles on wilderness trails just ahead of the British troops led by Benedict Arnold who were advancing on Monticello. There Jefferson had gathered with members of the Virginia legislature, including Patrick Henry, since they had all been chased out of Richmond. Jouett got there in time for them to evacuate. The other was a ride by Ceasar Rodney, now remembered by his image on the 1999 quarter. He rode through the night eighty miles from Newcastle, Delaware to Philadelphia in order to put his State in the “yes” column for creating a Declaration of Independence from Crown. So yes the children will listen and hear of a midnight ride of Paul Revere but it is in effect a “what if” of history.

We are nearing a month since we left St. Petersburg but the end of the story begins to come into sight. We however feel we should get these ramblings off before we move on. Pax Tecum…until the next time!

How will we remember “Charley”? As the hurricane that some say equaled “Andrew”? Or, as others say, was not as bad as “Andrew”? Or as it effected our lives and brought fear to it? Or just as a time we had to evacuate our home, leaving it to the Lord to protect, and then coming home to finding it all intact? No question how I will answer these inquiries, it was a moment and time when we were within the shadow of a giant who chased us from our home and kept us in fear for many hours. Like the September 11th tragedy and the killing of JFK we will remember for the rest of our lives where we were when Charley knocked on our door. It was truly a “Friday the 13th” in all respects. Where were we when Charley finally came ashore? In Land O’Lakes, Florida at the home of Michael Golden, June’s son, which is located north of Tampa in Pasco County.

We, June, myself, and our good friend Shirley Pyle left our home around 6 PM on Thursday, August 12th and headed for Mike’s. We spent the day, Friday, the 13th, watching and listening to movements of Charley. It was initially headed directly towards St. Petersburg, Tampa, and the Bay that lies between. If it struck at the speed of 145 miles per hour, as it ultimately did, in this area we would have had a water surge of 14 feet. This alone was frightening enough without thinking what the wind would and could do to the area. We spent all day Thursday preparing for the worst by cleaning out closets, raising the furniture, removing all that was outside and could be blown around and away. The news got worse as we watched since it was only a category 2 when we first tuned in but by three PM on Friday it was up to a “4”. Then came the blessing. Charley took a “Hard Right” as the newspaper later headlined. It turned ashore some 80 to 100 miles south of us striking at Port Charlotte Bay and that area. There was a visible sigh of relief in the room when that report came. The storm roared across Florida from that southwest landfall. It went Northeast across the center of Florida and headed out to sea near the city of Jacksonville. Though its traveling on land slowed the winds some, the damage, even in center Florida, was extensive. We saw a little rain where we were and returned home on Saturday morning. We had on that day heavy rains, tornado warnings, lightening and thunder but thank God, no more Charley. All of the area we live in was evacuated. It took us nearly an hour to drive across the eleven-mile bridge (Howard Frankland) connecting St. Petersburg and Tampa. It was reported that from nine hundred thousand to a million people evacuated the area. It was a time to move and a time to remember. The news of the effects of the storm continues to come in even now a week later. It will be a long time before normal living is restored to the devastated area. Powers is out, homes have been flattened, and all the things we usually take for granted in our daily lives have been lost or are only slowly working their way back. We who were spared are giving thanks in prayers, donations of all sorts including time and money to help the area recover. Like September 11th and JFK’s assassination the people are united and all the so-called ‘differences’ disappear. Charley will be like them a time to remember and give thanks that we didn’t have him as a guest in Shore Acres.

I received many comments, mostly complimentary, about my jottings last month where I talked about how I got into running. Compliments about the jottings always remind me of what my sister Therese, a Holy Child nun, said about them. She thought them fine, “But what do we do with all the paper?” I know a few who would have given her advice which were not too complimentary. But the remarks brought with them memories. It had me recalling other incidents that running brought to my life between 1971 and 1981. It was in that period that I ran the most distances and especially marathons and three 50 K’s (31 miles 150 yards). One of the memories was of a fellow master but much better performer Seth Bergman.

Thirty years ago in 1974, probably in March, we had a special Marathon. It was to qualify for entry into the Boston Marathon, which is run annually on “Patriots’ Day” in April. A qualify time was required for the first time in Boston’s history due to the number of participants growing in leaps and bounds. The opportunity to go and compete in an already scheduled marathon to qualify was eliminated in most cases because we were suffering at the same time from an ‘refined oil’ crisis. The prices were rising and reaching almost a dollar a gallon for gas, nothing like the two dollars of today. But it struck suddenly and plans had to be altered. I learned later confidently that it seemed to be a planned crisis since while we all waited for more refined gasoline a great deal of it was sitting in tankers in the Delaware Bay. But be that as it may, we had a running Crisis, so a marathon was quickly set up to be run in loops on the East and West River drives of Fairmount Park in Philadelphia.

Now the story I am about to relate happened while I too was competing in that race but I received it from a reliable source and knowing the parties could easily believe it to be so.

At the marathon there was a water station on the West River Drive at the bottom of the hill to Belmont Plaza. At the water station was a non-runner of Jewish heritage who was present to promote a little known running shoe company called “Reebok”. We will call him “Sam”. His main job was in sales of many items along with these new running shoes. He lamented that business was slow since Reebok was unknown then. Nike had command of this new running rage. So what better place to sell running shoes than at a running event.

As the runners passed the water station, Sam, along with other volunteers handed water to the runners in paper cups. Incidentally, they were the paper cups usually found next to office water bottles, not sturdy plastic ones as used today. I remember reaching many times for the hand holding the water cup and having it, the cup, crumble as it was passed from hand to hand. As you passed the volunteers would while holding out the cup chant, “water”, “water”, “here’s water”.

The third or fourth place runner as they passed the water station was Seth Bergman. He may be still running today. I know he was still running in 1981, but that’s another story. He was a medal-winning master in those days. Someone among the volunteers mentioned his name to Sam and he assumed that Seth was also of Jewish heritage.

As the race progressed being run in loops sure enough there was Seth coming by the same water station. Sam jumped out ahead of the other chanting water-servers and he went directly towards Seth shouting “Chicken Soup, Chicken Soup!” while holding a cup out to the striding Seth. Time has moved on, Sam has disappeared from running events, Reebok is a big seller of shoes, and “chicken soup” remains as ever the Jewish mother’s cure-all for both marathoners and non- runners alike.

Back in those halcyon days of my running in the 70’s, we had an annual Thanksgiving Day jaunt on what was called the “Forbidden Trail” in Wissahickon Park in Philadelphia. It was on Thanksgiving morning in order to make the meal seem less filling. A group of runners started at the beginning of the trail, which twisted its way through the country along the Wissahickon Creek for some 11 miles or so. Most would run at least that and some would add more miles by returning to selected drop off points. That morning in the late Seventies there was about twenty runners, including Bill King, myself, Herb Lorenz, Neil Weigandt and Seth Bergman. I discovered in 2001 while in Boston for my son Dan’s running of that classic marathon, that Neil Weigandt was running his 35th Boston! He would thus become the “number one” on list of people who have competed in successive Boston marathons. Herb was a world class marathoner who missed one of the Olympic teams by a place and did represent United State in the World Track & Field Championships held on one of the off years from the Olympics.

We were striding along at a causal pace shoulder to shoulder in a pack of maybe four or five lines. Seth Bergman, whom we mentioned above, was in the first row with the front runners. They passed a couple embracing on the side of the trail. Suddenly the man embracing stopped doing so and stared at the runners. He said something aloud like” Well, I’ll be damned, Seth?” We passed and nothing was said for some yards then someone asked, “Who was that Seth?” He calmly answered, “My Dad”. A few more paces and several yards, when Seth just as quietly said, “But that wasn’t my mother”.

In September 1981, June and I took a belated honeymoon trip to San Francisco. We stayed at Fisherman’s Wharf. We usually took a walk in the morning to maybe see some sights in the area and get some exercise before breakfast. One morning as we came out of the hotel and walked up to the street curb we stopped to decide which way we would go. As we stood there from our right came a runner and as he breezed by he said “Good morning Paul!” and kept on running. June asked, “Who was that?” I said, “It was Seth Bergman from the Elkins Park Roadrunners Club in Philly”. She, as well as I, was quite surprised as we learned “it is a small world”. Then June added, “Why didn’t he stop?” I told her because he was “running’, and stopping is not on your program when you are training. Later I talked to Seth about his surprise and leaned that his job often took him to San Francisco, and he loved to do his runs down by Fishermen’s Wharf. By coincidence these stories might sound like the “Seth Bergman Saga” but it just happens that he played a major part in each one of these ventures.

We had anticipated before these writing went out that we would know when Mary Lou was to have her surgery. It has been postponed until after September 15th. So we let you know when we know. Keep us and her in your prayers.