Paul McSorley's Jottings

It is Halloween or all hallows eve. The Garden of Eden, also known as Shore Acres, had a visit by a snake. It came in the form of a “pumpkin snatcher” last evening. Our lighted pumpkin was stolen from the front of our home. The loss is minimal, the affront outrageous!

Halloween was rained out. It poured all day and we had no Trick or Treaters. It was of interest to note that under “What happened this day in history” I found that on this day Martin Luther pinned his 95 theses to his church door in Wittenberg, Germany. It was the beginning of the Reformation.

Hallowe’en, it is reported by T. Cahill, in “How the Irish Saved Civilization”, was originally an Irish pagan festival. He says:

“Indeed, the survival of an Irish psychological identity is one of the marvels of the Irish story. Unlike the continental church fathers, the Irish never troubled themselves overmuch about eradicating pagan influences, which they tended to wink at and enjoy. The pagan festivals continued to be celebrated, which is why we today can still celebrate the Irish feasts of May Day and Hallowe’en.” In a footnote he indicates that the last night in October, called Samain, marked the beginning of winter, and was the night on which ghosts and other unfriendly creatures from the Otherworld were allowed to frighten the living. I always thought it was the “hallowed eve” of All Saints day but I now see it originated long before the feast of All Saints.

On November 1^st with the sun shining and temperature in the high 70’s we walked to the church for a craft show. We pause to reflect that it must be the first November first that we took a walk in the sun in shorts and sandals! June also noted that come next Saturday, November 8^th (now come to past) we’d have been in Florida 7 weeks, longer than any previous stay. However, we keep so busy that June, with a bit a humor remarked: “Yea, but when do we get to the “retirement” part??” For example, I had mentioned a bookstore called “Page after Page” which we visited when we were last down. We had promised to make use of it when we moved here permanently i.e., “retired”. We have yet to make that visit! But then we also are not your “old rocking chair” type of retirees.

We do have our time outs. The week in Fort Myers Beach was one and I did get out last week to play on a par three nine-hole course, new at Mangrove Bay. I am also playing the piano on Monday afternoon at Shore Acres Rehabilitation and Nursing Home. I perform after Bingo in the main lounge. Last Monday I had a great experience. I usually start around 3PM and stop around 3:45 with occasional stretches of the back. On one such stretch, I noticed a man walking around the back of the people sitting in their wheel chairs. He walked back and forth and as I rose to make my last stretch and bid adieu, he came up behind me and asks how the piano was. Almost simultaneously we both said, well it could stand some tuning and then he sat down. Well, what a pleasant surprise! He improvised the last song I had played: America the Beautiful…in a jazz motif…and then went on for twenty minutes…I had a great time listening. He finished and I thanked him suggesting…why not come back next Monday? He laughed and then told me he was just a visitor, as I started to leave the Center, he came out the door with me and since it was raining he shared my umbrella to the parking lot. I learned he was visiting his mother here at the home. He was from La Hoya California, and he often jumps in and plays with Jazz groups! In fact he had on one occasion sat in with “George Shearing”! He also knew and had heard of Earl Gamer and Teddy Wilson other old favorite jazz pianists of mine – Gamer made “Misty” a classic. I suppose a lot of this is of no interest to non-jazz lovers but what could have been a humbling experience turned out for me to be one of joy. He said he plays occasionally at nursing homes and encouraged me to continue.

The incident reminded me of some thoughts of Father Pat. We used to exchange audiotapes when he was in Munich. We had sent him one with the children performing, singing, playing the piano, etc. He made it a point of special thanks and then added he thinks it great that we share our talents, modest or small, whatever they may be. He told of trying to form a choir on the base where he was. He found most of the objections came from those who had had some musical training and therefore were their own worst critics. They couldn’t do this, or that, since they couldn’t do it perfectly or near perfect. He reordered the phrase: “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well”, to: If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing whether well or not.”

Played golf the other day with three Asians. I think they were Koreans. One was “Big Kim”, the other “Little Kim”, and “Lee”. Little Kim spoke a little English. I was walking with a pull cart and they were in two golf carts. I usually beat them to the next tee since I make that part of the game the part I do best, i.e. walking very fast. They had said little to me, except Little Kim asked when we started “Bloo Tee or Whites?” What he was asking is: “Do I want to play from the Blue Tees, i.e., championship level, or the White Tees, the regular guy level?” I answered by walking to the White ones. On some courses they have “gold tees” for the chronologically gifted players, like myself, which I have used on occasion. When we arrived at the tee on the 6^th or 7^th hole, Little Kim, says “How ole you?” I told him “68 going on 25!” He says, “Not look ole!” I thanked him and asked how old he was. He said 46 I thought he was about 28… Orientals sure are inscrutable; starting with what age they appear to be. My feeling was that they had asked me the questions because I was moving so fast and playing well I then proceeded to play like I was “86”…or equal to getting a score like that for nine holes! It occurs to me that letting flattery, explicit or implied, go to your head is a sure way to mess up a golf game. When I arrived home and told June that I had played with three Orientals who spoke little or no English, her observation was: “Well, you like playing just by yourself so it must have been like that” True.

I went to church today dressed in a suit, tie, shoes and socks. What’s noteworthy about that? Only that neither June nor I could remember the last time I was so attired. The “uniform of the day” of just a few months ago, is fast becoming the uniform of the very special occasion when the temperature is cool enough. C’est la vie! Another note, on Veteran’s Day we heard the Jack & Jill truck driving up and down the streets. Maybe not “Jack & Jill” but some soft ice cream company. It certainly is another first to have that sound come in our open windows in November.

Incidentally when I was playing the piano on Monday, Vincent Lopez had a request: Fascination. I played it, but not the way I would have liked to hear it. He wasn’t Vincent Lopez, the bandleader, in case you even recognized the name, but just another Vincent. He did however test me by saying: “My name is ‘Vincent Lopez’, do you know who he was?” I was able to answer, “Yes, a band leader and his theme song was “Nola!” Well, was he surprised? Little did he know I learned that bit of trivia not from music books, but crossword puzzles? He was sitting with his wife a patient in the center who at one time played the piano. He generously applauded my efforts with “Fascination”.

Thanksgiving comes. It will be spent this year with Rich, Shirley, her Dad, and some of their friends. We will miss the dinner of 22 or more with a house full of people, and particularly the children. But we will still be very thankful for our new home in this new city. It is still a “new” city but at the same time it is not. It is not a “city” as we have experienced it most of our life. It is more like being at the shore. The weather; the houses mostly all of one floor and built way back from the street; no sidewalks except on some main thoroughfares; the green everywhere and people dressed in casual clothes. In fact, you really take notice of some one who is in a suit and tie, where the contrary would have been true in your remembrance of a “city”. But it makes us even more thankful, since even as busy as we are, we seem to be on “vacation”. The really great thought about it is”…and we don’t have to leave shortly and go back to the “city!” I am sure all of this “newness” will wear away but at the rate we are enjoying it does not seem to be in the near future. It is something to be Thankful for on this day of giving thanks.

Before we leave you, we wanted to assure you that I am not just playing the piano and golf, but have continued my hobby of trying to read Latin, painting small objects of decorative use and large items like, our new shed, learning how to operate a lawn sprinkler system; reading novels and biographies…in fact I had a book I must have purchased over 20 years ago as part of a set of bound classics. I have carried it with others from one location to another over the years of moving. It was Irving Stone’s biography of Jack London, entitled “Sailor in Horseback”. The others were the “Three Musketeers”, by Dumas; “Crime & Punishment” by Dostoevsky and “The Moonstone” by Willkie Collins. All of the pages were brown with age and the spines were breaking open. They have been replaced now by a series entitled “Library of America Series” of which I now have six. I finished “Sailor on Horseback” and donated it and the others to a local bookstore, which takes books for a credit.

Jack London’s life was short and wild. He did write, however, entrancing stories and they still sing today. Some of the most famous were “Call of the Wild”, “White Fang” and “Sea Wolf’ I was surprised to learn how active he was in the politics of Oakland, CA. as a socialist when that word was just being coined. He ran for Mayor of Oakland twice on the Socialist Ticket. He died in 1916 from a possible drug overdose at the age of 40. He died on Nov. 22 the same day as JFK.

I will close on this the 15^th day of November – a day to remember as Kate Cosgrove Baker’s Birthday and the day her great grandmother and my mother, Marguerite Cosgrove McSorley died.

HAPPY THANKSGMNG TO Ron & Mary & the Double “A’s”

There is no question what you have to be thankful for on this day of giving thanks…how are they doing? Every time I type your address: “No. 10…”I’m tempted to add “Downing Street” or at least, “Sts Alex and Aidan’s Place” Heard you had a great open house, but it comes as no surprise knowing who the hosts were. I had a laugh when I saw the E-Mail note re Tom’s 40^th…I said to myself: “He had his fortieth surprise party?”…And then of course it hit me, Tom McSorley, Dec. 22, 1957 and I was there…Philadelphia Naval Base Hospital…the first born in Philadelphia. Enjoy the celebration and you can be sure I am Thankful for having you in my family…Love, Dad.

MEMOIR II Where Were You?

If his Honor nodded his head, with the comment, “I see” one more time I felt sure I would scream! He reminded me of a contrivance, called a do-do bird I believe, that often was seen through the rear windows on the back shelves of cars. He, the bird, would dip his head up and down, up and down, ad infinitum. It was like that this day in the courtroom ever since Lenny, the new counsel, had started his argument, as to why another hearing was necessary in this matter. You would believe that Lenny was a Supreme Court Justice telling this lowly Common Pleas Judge what he must do. Lenny, was Leonard Wolfe, former City Solicitor for the Zoning Board of Adjustment (ZBA), for the City of Philadelphia…note “former”. He was now representing the neighbors of my client who were and had objected to the granting of a variance to him for a professional office in his home. Just a week ago, November 15, 1963, and prior to Lenny, his Honor, the now nodding potentate, had agreed that the neighbors had little basis legally for a complaint. He had also noted that they had one day in court in that they had appeared before the ZBA some months ago. The ZBA after that hearing had granted the variance. This was the appeal from that Board. A week ago the “law was clear” but now this simple case has become more like “Brown v. Board of Education” in light of the ex-city-solicitor’s remarks.

I was only five years at the practice. The date was November 22, 1963. His honor was giving the young lawyer, unknowingly, a good lesson. It was this: sometimes it is not the facts, nor the law, that controls but who is representing the party. His honor had not previously handled many Zoning appeals as I recall. He was now being impressed with this smoke screen Lenny was laying out before him raising questions of constitutional rights, community welfare, and the like! I was waiting my turn even as my temperature was rising. This was an important matter for me as a young lawyer and father of seven children. The ward leader, and 1reasure to the city’s party organization, had sent this client to me. He hopefully could be a good source of clients and income thereafter…but I had to demonstrate that I could “successfully” represent this referral, i.e., win the case. Until Lenny’s entrance on the stage, it was smooth sailing. His Honor readily agreed that the objectors had had a full opportunity to demonstrate to the board that the granting of the variance would be harmful and contrary to the intent of the zoning code. They had not so convinced the Board, and without a great deal more the Boards should be upheld.

The stakes were seemingly high, but fate would intervene in the strangest of ways and make all of this become trivial.

I finally got the opportunity to address the nodding jurist. I pointed to his prior ruling and that even permitting the reopening of the matter today was without precedent. He appeared to be listening but I got no nods! Instead he interrupted me to accept a whispered message from his personal. He then immediately adjourned for lunch.

My client was in “panics-Ville.” Why was it all going in the wrong direction? Why are we even here today when it appeared completely resolved last week?” I had no real answers. I suggested that the court wanted to grant a courtesy to another former member of the establishment, a former City Solicitor or something along those lines. I finally was able to free myself of his tortured cross-examination and get to some other matters in the office. We were to be back at 2PM as I recall but as I write this, 34 years later, the precise times are a bit hazy.

We were all there in that 4^th floor courtroom after the lunch recess. I was again permitted to argue why a full hearing was unnecessary. I began again but noise of voices in the corridors…louder than usual had us all pause. Then someone entered the courtroom behind the Judge and handed him a note. He read it and his face, displayed shock! “Gentleman, the President has been shot!” The noise in the hall came into the courtroom. The whole building was a buzz with gasps and groans. His Honor adjourned the court.

This was where I was when I heard the news of John F Kennedy’s assassination. Where were you?

Riding home on the elevated train I saw people in tears. I like, them kept thinking, “It couldn’t be”, But it was. I watched with the rest of America as we saw his assassin, Oswald, be gunned down on TV. The age of Camelot came crashing down. The Evening Bulletin for Friday evening November 22, 1963 read: “Sniper Kills Kennedy” and reported the President had died at 2PM. “Grief hushes the City”, men and women were openly crying in the streets noted Saturday’s Inquirer. Its headline was “Kennedy Shot to Death” I know these are the headlines since I still have those newspapers, along with several magazines, like Life, Look, and their memorial editions published later.

Monday came and there was no information about my now almost forgotten case. In light of the tragic events its triviality made it one of the last things on my mind. Time went by and some several weeks later I received a one page “Order” sustaining the Zoning Board in the matter. In effect, it dismissed the attempt by Lenny to have a new hearing in the matter.

But the day, that Black Friday, would remain with me for the rest of my life, as I am sure he has with many others. I had in my office a photo of JFK autographed by him. It was his real signature, not the machine one of John “F” Kennedy. He left the “F” out when he signed anything himself. The picture was addressed to “Richard T. McSorley”, Dad (Father Dick had obtained it). Dad gave it to me since he knew how much I admired the man. I had worked to see him elected. He was the last presidential candidate for whom I so labored. I remember standing on a street comer, 52^nd and Market (!!), speaking to a small crowd as to why he was needed. I also remember my Dad going down to Broad Street from the office, as Kennedy came by when campaigning, just to see him. He couldn’t believe a young man and a Catholic could try to be elected President. He had to go see for himself if he was for real!

Needless to say, I can’t remember the name of the client, nor whether I ever received another referral from the ward leader. I vaguely remember being on the street where the client’s office was, years later and seeing his name still up there on a sign. No, the day would be remember only because of John Kennedy’s death, and like millions of other Americans. I could answer the question: “Where were you when you heard President Kennedy was shot?” “Me, why, I was in court! Where were you?”

November 1997 PLMCS

As a footnote to these memories I now see another book has be published about JFK (makes about 2000 so far) and his years as President. It is not a book of praise but rather a damming one. It was reviewed this week in the NY Times and it got mixed reports. How true was Shakespeare in saying via Mark Anthony “The good (that men do) is oft interred with their bones…” The mud does not besmirch my memories.

PLMCS Dec. 1997

This issue is the first from our new home in St. Petersburg. As I begin so we too begin to see beyond the boxes, now nearly all gone, to the new furniture, all nearly in place. The one piece to be installed is my work unit.

We have been sleeping in the new house since September 24^th the furniture having been delivered that day. It seems longer. Every day there is some one working on the property or we are going out buying items in preparation for the “someone” working on the place. We did take a break on Sunday the 27^th and drove to Fort Myers Beach, Sanible Island, and Captiva to inspect the possibilities of having a week of R&R at one of them. We voted for Fort Myers with ana efficiency unit on the third floor facing the beach and the Gulf. We will leave this Saturday, the 11^th to spend time there until the 18^th.

This is the first sentence typed at my new desk! (Referred to as a PC Work Unit!) Can’t you tell?? I find myself a lot closer to the monitor but with all this beautiful oak surrounding me, it is of little matter. The rest of the room is a mess. I have built myself into a big U with the monitor at the top of the upside down “D” and tables down either side. It is a bit crowded and some confusion at this point as to where things are but we have begun…so the rest will come!

My day typically begins with a bit of studying – usually Latin or writing. When June awakens we walk. We head towards the Bay and have on most occasions chugged along Bayview Drive. It is a busy morning spot with walkers, joggers and people with their dogs. We are just about getting sun as we arrive at this drive and have recently been blessed with less humidity, and even, once in a while a breeze. The sight as we start down Connecticut Avenue towards the Bay is one of scattered palm trees high in the sky with dawns gray light behind them like a big canvass.. They look like silhouetted sticks with rag mops on top against the morning sky. They rise some 60 to 70 feet in the air and if there is a breeze they wave at us. The light changes quickly and soon the red ball starts to peek over and around the houses along the Bay. The walk ends with the purchase of a St. Petersburg Times. Our first few times out we found a box as we turned to go home. It had only one paper left. The next few days we notice it had now two papers. Then a few days later no box! We both had to confirm that, “Yes, yesterday we got a paper from a box on this comer!” We notice one block away a box so it now becomes are morning stop.

On Sundays we attend the Lutheran Church of the Cross, which is only a few blocks away. In fact it is across the street from where we get our morning paper. On Wednesday evenings I sit in on a course given by the Pastor entitled “What Lutheran’s Believe”. This week June joined me in my attendance. However, after the class she has decided that she will not return. It is too much like her confirmation classes.

On Wednesday of this week instead of the walk, I decided to try a little golf. I haven’t played since July other than a session at the driving range last week. So off I went at 7:45AM to try nine. I thought you could choose to play only that many holes at a reduced rate any time in the AM. The course is called “Mangrove Bay” and is on 62nd Avenue, about 5 minutes away. We are located approximately where 40th Avenue might be if it came into Shore Acres. In fact, 40^th Avenue becomes after a short “S like” turn, “Connecticut Avenue”. So we have about twenty blocks (40^th to 62^nd) to tee off. I am a “discount member”. As a resident of St. Pete’s I pay a blanket annual fee and obtain a discount on all activities or purchases at the club. It is only available to St. Petersburg Residents since the course is owned and managed by the city. I arrived and inquired about playing nine and then was informed I was late. You must tee off before 7:30AM to select the option of nine at a reduced rate. However, being a new member (and dumb one at that) they graciously allowed me to go anyway. The starter advised me that I should start on the 10^th hole. It meant I would be playing by myself. I couldn’t have planned that better. I now had no one to rush me, could hit one or two balls, etc. It was a good way to get in a practice. I did let a couple go through around the 13^th and then on the 16^th the clouds that had been keeping the sun covered produced a shower. I took cover under a large bush and watched the rain come down like it was pouring out of a shower-head from some where up there in the clouds. It was light and then one heavy blast and then, it slowly started to become a mist. The sun came out and I went out to continue. Then behold a beautiful sight! A perfect rainbow from horizon to horizon! All I needed was Judy

Garland to sing the background music. It stayed with me as I played for another 20 minutes. On the 18th as I was winding up another sprinkle came. I was back at Connecticut Avenue by 10 AM. I won’t inform you as to my progress on the course but just say it needs several more similar sessions before it could be called “playing golf’. The rainbow was to me a good omen auguring a beautiful and pleasing time for our new life and in our new home.

It is now the 18^th day of October and we have returned from a visit to Fort Myers Beach. It was a delight. Sun every day but today, and even a rainbow this morning to say goodbye to us. The Gulf is not an ocean but we did have some waves after Thursday when the wind was blowing from the north and west. The sunsets are mindboggling. We sat on the fourth floor balcony and Ooh’d and Ah’d as the gold ball settled into the water on the horizon. The sand below us that ran to the water’s edge was as white as snow, yet never burned the feet after being in the boiling sun for hours. Immediately to the left and right of our balcony were palm trees rising from that white sand and went up another floor, so it confirms my feeling that the average ones rise 40 to 50 feet up in the air. June got her tan and then some. I did some swimming in the lake, I mean the gulf, and played two rounds of golf. We read and ate out almost every night. In fact just across the street from our resort (“The Outrigger”) was a Charley Brown Restaurant. It was excellent and reasonable. We made it a visit twice.

I was able to get a NY Times every morning; got a start on 16″ by 20″ oil painting (by the numbers “for ages 10 and up”); read “Call of the Wild” by Jack London, a P.D. James’ novel, ‘The Black Tower”, a pamphlet about “What Lutheran’s Believe”, worked on a story from my checkered past (will be released at a later date); and, even reviewed a bit of my Latin I vocabulary…so you can tell I had a grand time! Incidentally June did also and if I’m correct I think she finished three books during the week, plus we walked at least once each day, either on the beach or on the pavement along the only road running north and south on the island. It certainly felt different to leave the beach and drive north and not be heading to Philly.

This Wednesday, Oct. 22^nd we will have been at 1644 for one month. The repairs go on and I have a tough time getting back to this machine so I’ll leave you till November with a hope that I can add to each a little note.

A thought: Fabled excuse of the distinguished atheistic philosopher, ushered after death, into the presence of God: “But Lord, you didn’t provide sufficient evidence!” (From P.D. James’ “Black Tower).

Ron and Mary,

Hope you are having some success with your real estate problem. I know I wasn’t much help in suggestion local counsel’s advice but it’s the best I could do. Mary enclosed is a column by Russ Baker re your alma mater thought you might enjoy…need a little humor I’m sure by now. Give Aidan and Alex big hugs for Grandmom June and us.

Love, Dad

“September Jottings ’97” marks an anniversary. This month five years ago in 1992, I typed my first jottings on a computer. Judy had typed the ones that preceded that. In fact the 1992 edition was typed partially on Paul Keeley’s computer then on mine. I purchased this PC on Sept 23, 1992.

The process of our moving brought me to discover the above. I am cleaning house in order to take only what is necessary. I pulled out the copies of the jottings and began reading. It was, as they say, “a trip down memory lane”. It also illuminated the improvements I have made in handling the machine and its secrets! The September ’92 issue, when compared to Judy’s typing prior thereto and my since, appears to be a draft. So I have retyped it and edited it. You might well ask “why?”

Unfortunately, I don’t have neither snappy nor reasonable answer other than I just felt compelled to clean it up.

The cleaning house also led me to learn that I began these ramblings, etc, (not called “Jottings” until 1994) in April of 1992. Prior thereto I had written a recollection of Marge’s trip and mine to Sulu for Frank’s Funeral, entitled “My Sad Odyssey”.

Enough of the past, now the present. Our time in Dorcas Street is now down to days (Ed. note: it is now 9/30/97 and we have been in Florida since 9/20).

My acknowledging that I was studying Latin once again brought some interesting echoes. One, a note from Eleanor McSorley indicating she too had studied the language for six years and had an itch to maybe try it again; another was from my Dentist, Gene Lewis, who asked the perennial retiree question: “What will you do with your time?” and got, as part of the answer, my new venture into Linqua Latina. He then indicated he studied it for four years, every day in H.S. and wished he could go back to the reading it as he was able to do then. The last was a clipping sent to me by Bill King reporting, “Latin’s not Greek to Them” referring to a conference, held in Finland recently, where Latin was the only language spoken! It had in attendance Latin Speakers from 21 countries some of whom could not speak English. Some 220 Latin teachers and scholars attended and every where you went people would say “Ubi habitas?” rather than “Where do you live?” So the “dead” language lives!

I note that on the Net it is getting more attention with a variety of programs. One, very handy for me, is “Words by Whitaker” where you can type in a Latin word or phrase and it translates it, advising if it is a noun, adjective, verb, adverb or pronoun, and then telling you what conjugation, declension, etc. I find it useful since one of the manuals I am using doesn’t have a “trot “i.e., a literal translation of the Latin text. So after I have made my stab at the translation I then go to Whitaker and confirm, or re-do, as the case maybe. One book I continue to use “Latina Pro Publico” and it does have all its exercises so translated. It lists them in the section entitled “Trots”. Latin studies are the only place where I ever recall that word being used with this meaning. I also received in the mail an ad selling a CD’s for the study of languages, and sure enough there among the Spanish, French, Russian, German, etc. was Latin (I received the CD and it is a terrific tool!).

When I told June about the conference where they talked only Latin she taunted: ‘Well, I suppose now you’ll want to go to such a conference?” I don’t think so unless the process of my relearning suddenly and miraculously speeds up!

Thinking about talking in a foreign language reminded me of a train ride I had with Frank (later Bishop Frank) in 1948 through the Pyrenees on our way to Genoa. We had a compartment or a small room where at least eight people could sit, four on each side. There was only the two of us and we noted in the corridor, outside our closed door, several young men and women standing. Frank, in a mixture of Spanish,

Latin, and French invited them into the cabin. I was just fresh from two years of studying French and decided to try my skill with communicating in that language. I got nowhere. I might as well have been speaking Chinese. My attempts were soon cut short when the conductor bursts in, and in a language that we all understood, be it French, Spanish, or what have you, ordered our guests back into the hallway. He returned to apologize to us in English for their disruptive behavior. Neither Frank nor I offered to explain that they had been invited, since we would have been likewise subject to the “wardens” anger over the rules being broken. It seems they paid for “steerage” and that’s all he would allow them. So my venture into using my newly learned (?) French never got off the ground. Later in Rome I was told that I shouldn’t blame it all on my lack of knowledge or practice, it seems those young people were most likely students from the north of Spain who speak a mixture of French and Spanish peculiar to the Pyrenees region. Incidentally, I got to watch Frank use his Latin in Genoa. We arrived early in the morning and we went to a church where he wanted to celebrate Mass. He discussed this in Latin with an Italian priest, who could speak no English, and we were ushered in to the church. This was 1948 when Latin was the language of the Mass and the official language of the Roman Church, which I suppose it, still is.

In my travels in cyberspace I came across a journal entitled “The Blockhead Journal”. It takes its name from a Dr. Johnson quote “No man but a blockhead ever wrote except fob4 r money”. The editor is a retired TV-newspaper journalist. His last position was in New York and his work in editorial writing and producing brought him a Peabody Award. He lives in Durham, North Carolina and teaches at Duke, and in a local institution a Bible class five times a week. His Journal, which by the way is for “no money”, has daily “a what happened this day in history; a round table discussion group; info on good links (a link a day keeps the blues away); reviews of books, TV-videos, films; a gourmet table; travel and music pages; a poets comer; and, The Church of One-at-a-Time with a daily meditation from the bible. The writer’s name is Richard N. Hughes and if you wish you can enjoy all of this for yourself on the net. The address is http://www.blockhead.com.

My interests in the Journal have been, most of the time, in its book and poetry comers. I occasionally read an editorial but stay away since I find myself starting to take notes to respond to what I consider poor reasoning or non-sequiturs. As they say: “You can take the Lawyer out of the Practice, but you can’t take the practice out of the lawyer!”

His poetry comer led me to Dorothy Parker and the purchase of one of her books. It also confirmed that I still don’t dig Walt Whitman. I did find it interesting to learn that Walt was a civil servant and as a young man in D.C. watched Lincoln travel back and forth on horseback with his entourage. It, his watching, perhaps resulted in one poem I do enjoy “O Captain, My Captain…our fearful trip is done.” He was Camden’s most famous citizen as far as I know. None of this helped me get through the “Leaves of Grass”. From the Blockhead’s book page I’ve garnered an interest in several books and have one now entitled: “Paul: The Mind of the Apostle “. One of its theses is that it was he, not the other apostles, that created “Christianity” as a sect or religion, “Paul, not Jesus was – if anyone was – the Founder of Christianity.” I haven’t read it yet so I’ll save my judgments until after the hearing.

The most recent issue to attract me was an essay of Richard Wilbur, the American Poet Laureate in 1987. A fact that neither the writer nor I knew when he began to read his poetry and a book of critical essays about his work. It wasn’t only his poetry, some of which is quoted in the essay, but the writer’s feelings about life, writing, and the “eternal verities” that stirred the editor. The writer-editor of the Blockhead is retired from the hustle and bustle and creates this journal out of personal satisfaction, not material gain. He would certainly qualify as one of Dr. Johnson’s “blockheads”.

It is now the 30^th Day of September and I type this from 1644 Connecticut Avenue, our new home. I best end here if it is ever to be honestly considered “September’s Jottings”. I’ll try to add a note to each and bring you all up to date in October.

Mememto! Dum vita est, spes est!

Ron and Mary (and the Dynamite Duo, Aidan and Alex),

Think of you often but more particularly when we see an oversized cherub that smiles like the either of the A’s – let us know how they are progressing – like playing soccer, talking Latin, or helping mom out with the housework!

Love, Dad (and Proud Granddad)

 

August, the month of birthdays, is with us. It, this birthday month, has for us more of them than any other month of the year. There is the Mary’s: McSorley and MacDonald (June’s sister) on the fifth and sixth; Danny McSorley and Denise Bugey on the seventh; Bryan MacDonald, Jr. on the eleventh; Paul Leo, Jr. on the sixteenth; Sr. Mary Rita McSorley on the nineteenth; and the month ends with grandson, Paul Joseph Berger, on the thirty-first. So let’s all join in and sing, “Happy Birthday To You! …Hope you remember the words!

We are celebrating our 16 years of marriage (5/15) in St. Petersburg, Fl. by getting our house in order. We are converting just a “house” into a “Home”. It is being painted, carpet laid, appliances installed, air conditioning and heating system replaced, garage door replaced, a new porch being built in place of the old one, phone connected, etc. etc. (I can report as I retype this now all the above has been done and a new driveway will be laid by the time be return!) We hope to have it ready by Paul’s Birthday and then leave once more for Dorcas Street. We will then gather up our belongings and furniture and return to Connecticut Avenue, NE. In St. Pete’s our new address and phone number will be (post 9/19 approx):

1644 Connecticut Avenue, NE

St. Petersburg FL. 33703

(813)-522-4796

On or about September 19,1997 we will have a settlement on our property on Dorcas Street. Then it’s off to Shore Acres.

We went out for dinner to celebrate our anniversary at a restaurant near Madeira Beach. As we entered on the large slate board stood the list of the ‘Today’s Specials” written in chalk. Below them, Lo and behold, it said: “Congratulations! It’s a girl “Hanna Elizabeth, 7lbs 11 ozs. 20 inches long…” Who would believe that some 1500 miles away we would be reminded of our own new “Hannah Elizabeth” born just 5 months ago! We hope she is coming along with her therapy and will give you all a report as soon as we have anything further.

I ran into my father the other night here in Florida. Sounds like a line from the play “Da!”. I was a bit surprised to see him here in Florida but then he did not seem upset that I was asleep. I was complaining to him about his failing to offer me any sex education. As I recall the only instructions I ever received were comments he made as he passed by the open bathroom door, as I was relieving myself, “take care of that you will need it if you ever get married!!” or words to that effect. My complaints to him however fell on deaf ears and were quickly dismissed when he asked me: “Well what sex education did you ever give your sons?” Touché! Never could win an argument with Him! Case dismissed!

My father wasn’t much into instructing but then neither was I. Most of his edicts were in epigrams like “Don’t waste time! Phones are for messages not conversation! (My daughter Mazy reminded me recently that I passed this one on to my children). He did teach by example rather than by words. His disciplining himself, certainly over done on occasion, will always be with me. It was real work and he did do it well. I now know the nature of the task and admire his having done so. He also, along with Mom made us realize, very early, that education is worth the work. Nothing new here, just reminiscing about the ‘old boy’ who would be 111 years old in 1997. Seems like a” moment” when we read about the Neanderthal Man becoming extinct 50,000 years ago.

Recalling, “Father”, reminds me of some stories I crossed in reading about the “Father” of Our Country, G.W. It appears that George was aloof and aristocratic to the core. His aura of complete control at all times made him an unforgettable character even to his contemporaries. One story I read was in Catherine Drinker Bowen’s “Miracle at Philadelphia”. It seems Alexander Hamilton and some of the boys while drinking in one of the Inns discussed George’s aloofness and untouchable quality. He certainly was not ” one of the boys” at the Constitutional Convention. Alex ventured that it was really not that bad and made a bet that he could walk up to George and give him one of those,” How hell are ya greetings!” with a pat or slap on the back. Some accepted Alex’s offer; others begged off knowing Alex had been one of George’s aide-de-camp during the war. Later in another pub while George was standing alone, in front of a fireplace contemplating or whatever General’s do, Alex walked over to him. When he came abreast of GW, he started to raise his arm to the shoulder of the General while saying “Hello”. George turned his head a bit and glared at the arm and Alex. The arm fell to one side! Catherine omitted telling us how much

Alex lost on that challenge but we all recall how he lost his life on another one with a guy named Burr.

The other George story appeared in the “American Sphinx” by Joseph Ellis, an analysis of the character of Thomas Jefferson. It reports the battles around George waged by TJ, a cabinet member, and no other know “who” stepped on my foot! Why? The foot stepping is easy. We are proud to report the incident of the unintentional touching, but when “we “see men embrace, touching, kissing, it is tougher. It collides with the “no intentional touching code” of the American Male. We make exceptions in the boxing ring, wrestling mat, football field, hockey rink, etc. etc. That touching is OK. Violent touching is allowed, we “color” other touching as effeminate, flowery (i.e. pansy).

I watched two men walking holding hands and I boiled. My mind asked why but my feelings said it’s wrong. I colored it as I have been made to feel that way over a lifetime of learning all about “sin”.

In contrast, June had an experience while walking to work several mornings seeing two men holding hands and kissing good-bye. She shrugged it off until one day she noticed only one man as she walked by. Her thought was something like: “I hope nothing has happened between them!” No condemnation here, just good old plain sympathy for the possibility of a broken relationship.

Maybe it just comes easier if you’re a woman!

We opened these pages with “birthdays” in August present; we would like to now think about August birthdays past, viz., Frank and John. They were both born on the 25^th of this month ten years apart (1913 & 1923: Frank number one son, number one child; and, John number six son and number ninth child!). I think of John often when I stay at his son’s Richard’s house. He spent his last days here. We, June and I were further reminded of him as we walked Shore Acres. We pass the house of his widow Dee. His old Chevy is parked in the driveway. Dee must at least continue to use the name “McSorley” since I answered a telephone call at Rich’s home asking for “Dee McSorley”. I advised the caller: No, I do not know her phone number, No, I do not know her precise address but it is on Overlook Drive, etc., etc. She is an enigma.

Apparently the only “McSorley” she ever wants to hear about is when she’s addressed as “Mrs. McSorley”!

We close with the news that we will move on either the 17^th or 18^th of September. Our next episode will be from Connecticut Avenue, Shore Acres, and St. Petersburg, Florida Vale!

 

At one of the last Law School reunions I attended I had a discussion about annulment of marriages in the Catholic Church. It was with Jim Keating, then a deputy Attorney General for the State of New Jersey. Jim had recently been divorced, as I had, after some 20 years of marriage and incidentally was also the father of seven children. He inquired if I was also seeking an annulment, as he had. I told him I was not doing so. It, I opined, seemed a bit awkward, to say the least, to annul seven children and twenty-two years of a relationship. He showed some minor surprise in that he had done the opposite. He advised that he had obtained an annulment in the diocese of the Bronx, New York. I was confused and it must have shown. I knew he was employed by the State of New Jersey and assumed he lived there, he acknowledges, he did. He explained that the Bronx was the “forum of convenience”, that is, he chose that diocese because of its relaxed requirements and it was comparatively cheap. He had made a survey of the matter and he offered me the wisdom of his search: “Well, if you ever decide to go for one, this is the diocese to use!” He added that local counsel easily handled the resident requirement. I thanked him for his advice but declined his offer of help.

Later, after mentioning this to Father Jim, he sent me a book in preparation (still in paper form) written by a (canon) lawyer in Michigan. It contained information about most of the dioceses in U.S. and their requirements for annulments. It made a table of comparisons from severely limited grounds for granting an annulment to the most liberal grounds. It, also, if I remember correctly, gave an estimated cost of the same and its residential requirements. It seemed to be what Jim Keating had done on his own.

All of these remembrances were recalled because of a book reviewed recently in the N.Y. Times Book Review. It was a review of a book written by the ex-Mrs. Joseph Kennedy. Joe is the eldest of Bob Kennedy’s children and is a congressman from Massachusetts. Joe and his wife were divorced after 12 years of marriage, which produced twins.

Joe has obtained an annulment. The book arose from his ex’s appeal to the Vatican in objection to that annulment. It is a blast at the Church’s practice of granting annulments more than an attack on the marriage or Joe.

The ex-Mrs Kennedy is Shelia Rauch Kennedy. She refers to the American Catholic Church as the “Nevada of the Roman Church” The book is entitled” Shattered Faith” but the reviewer, Christopher Lydon, captions his review: “A Woman Scorned”! She contends that the practice in U.S. is an “elaborate pretense” while holding a technical line against “Divorce”. “The policy…is a fraud, a tissue of lies about religion…a hoax that is particularly cruel to dutiful Catholic wives…”

She notes that one of the grounds for granting an annulment is “lack of due discretion”. This is a code phrase for a multitude of hindsight flaws. It has allowed the proceedings to become infected with analysis by “psychological consultants” who on the strength of an hour’s (or less) interview will issue opinions about the mental state of the marriage partner years earlier. It is therefore no wonder that a church canon lawyer could brag: “There isn’t a marriage in America, that we can’t annul!”

Some paradoxes alluded to by the authoress: The hypocrisy of having “support groups” for divorcees yet not recognizing divorce; the priest, though a known, and even convicted sex offenders, still remains a priest, i.e., the sacrament of Holy Orders is not dissolved nor annulled; Catholics who marry members of the Jewish faith in their ceremony do not lose the privileges of the sacraments in the church; the marriage is recognized as a “valid” but not sacramental marriage. However, the most damning charge is a summary by the reviewer:

“If the sacrament of marriage can be undone on the grounds of neurotic tendencies among the partners–if sacraments can be erased on any finding short of force, fraud, the gravest misunderstandings or a clear sign from God –surely the church has abandoned the principle that it is God’s own grace that makes the union, not merely the designs of men and women whose inescapable flaws make every human act vulnerable to ultimate inspection”

She has a solution. You get one crack at a “sanctified” marriage and if you “blow it” the new marriage can be recognized as “valid”, but we won’t say your prior marriage never existed! The church should draw a distinction between “valid” and “sacramental” marriages here as it does elsewhere. Amen.

Then there are those “reasonable men” who would simply say: ”When you entered the contract, took vows, you did it knowingly and voluntarily, ergo you knew a “divorce” meant loss of membership in the club. Unless of course now you want to make believe that you were somehow duped into making that contract so it should be dissolved.

There is no question that the “ex-Mrs.K” presents a severely damaging analysis of the annulment practices in the church in America. It puts it right up there with its practice regarding women and holy orders; the sexual orientation of it’s members, etc. etc. I would love to see what the Vatican does with regard to her appeal!

Time is drawing us closer to our departure. Today is June’s Birthday (6/29) and we are having an “open house” at 7435 Dorcas for everyone but the owners – they are asked not to be here. This time last year we watched the whales respond in grand fashion for June’s day. So maybe we will be as lucky today with Buyers…I can report now as I type this…we have four deals being put forth…no agreement though as of today (6/30).

Did you ever wonder? The 30th of June is the end of the fiscal year; tomorrow begins a “New” fiscal “Year” – but nobody celebrates it with New Year’s Parties – hmmm. I suppose it’s being concerned about the deficit that makes partying a bit out of place, no?

One of my new PC games is “Latin I”, played by declining nouns and conjugating verbs…(just what ever household needs). I was demonstrating it to June when popped the “eternal” question: “What good is it to learn Latin? You can’t use it to talk to anyone?” Ah yes! What good is it? What use is it? An” All-American” question never easily answered. One could be: It’s fun. I enjoy testing my memory and solving the puzzle, i.e., the translation, like crosswords. Another is: It is tried again with a bit of nostalgia for that time some 50 years ago when I could read the language, in some form, after six years of study. It reminds me of those times and I’d like to see if I could resurrect some of that proficiency.

The thoughts of its being “good” or “useful” reminded me of part in the book I’ve been reading by Kathleen Norris, called “The Cloister Walk “in a chapter entitled “Degenerates”. Kathleen Norris is a poet who became a Benedictine oblate (associate) even though not a Catholic nor previously church oriented. She lived for periods of up to nine months at a time in monasteries following the rule and living the liturgy. In the Degenerates chapter she talks about the usefulness of poets and monks. She compares them:

“I told the monks that I had come to see both writing and monasticism as vocations that require periods of apprenticeship and formation. Prodigies are common in mathematics, but extremely rare in literature, and…’As far as I know there are no prodigies in monastic life’…

Poets and monks do have a communal role in American culture, which alternately ignores, romanticizes, and despises them. In our relentlessly utilitarian society, structuring life around writing is as crazy as structuring a life around prayer, yet that is what writers and monks do. Deep down, people seem glad to know that monks are praying, that poets are writing poems…I regard monks and poets as the best degenerates in America. Both have a finely developed sense of the sacred potential in all things; both value image and symbol over utilitarian purpose or the bottom line; they recognize the transformation powers hiding in the simplest things, and it leads them to commit absurd acts: the poem, the prayer, what nonsense!

In a culture that excels at creating artificial, tightly controlled environments (shopping malls, amusement parks, chain motels), the art of monks and poets is useless, if not irresponsible, remaining out of reach of commercial manipulation and ideological justification.” (Wish I could write like that!)

Please, I don’t intend to infer that my playing with Latin in any way rises to what poets and monks do, but it was such a strange Coincidence to be reading this at a time when the question arose as to what good is this or that discipline that has no “bottom line”.

Vive! Vale! (Enjoy & Farewell)

Ron and Mary,

When do your attorney and his spouse get to see the new palace? I’m adding “snow” shovels to my gift to the new place. Also, we have a couple of old tables – one kitchen size, another was a room divider years ago – let me know if you’re interested.

Love, Dad

Time is catching up with me. It is now nearly Winifred’s birthday (12^th) in the month of June and the words are still in my head. It has been time well spent. I already related a bit of our sojourn south from March 28 until May 9^th. We returned to attend the Christening of Alex and Aidan. We returned to begin preparations for the move in September.

The christening was a grand affair. We had the church to ourselves. A goodly number from both families were in attendance. The award for the “Fastest Baby Undresser” went to the team of Mary and Suzie, proving once again a “Mother Knows Dress!” or practice makes perfect. The losers were Tom and Ron. The undressing was required since the baptism was to be one a full immersion. It however never came to pass so the undressing contest was for show only. We did receive a lesson in parental control, when it appeared that Colleen was not going to remain quiet or in one place during the ceremony. She, Colleen, was collected by her Mother, Suzanne Marie, and summarily taken out of the main church area to a vestibule. Mother returned alone! Some five minutes or so later Mother left and returned with the child. A now subdued and quieted child. Many later sought to learn the secret of her child control. It turned out to be nothing new…just a regular old bribe, “Be good or no cookies at the Christening party!” The magic was in that it worked so well.

The time in St Pete’s was spent in reading, painting, walking, writing, studying, playing some golf, drawing, and shopping for things needed in the new house. I even found a nursing home nearby with a grand piano in its lobby that I visited a couple times. We also visited the beaches, some of the restaurants, entertained our guests, Rich and Shirley, and Macy Lou. It really is not proper to refer to Rich and Shirley as “guest” since it was their house in which we were entertaining them. One memorable event, which we promised to promulgate herein: Shirley, a new golfer, managed to be the leader after nine holes while playing with Rich (her husband) and two friends. We both agreed that it was a nugget worth reporting in these rambling pages.

Macy Lou’s visit required a new restaurant every night. We also visited some of the outdoor bars and entertainment places. One of our visits was to Shepherd’s in Clearwater Beach. It is one of the better buffets on the “Sun Coast”. A term applied to the places along the Gulf (from Naples all the way north to Clearwater, at least. On the day of our visit I had played golf with Glenn Miller, a fire captain from Toronto. He is no relation to the departed Big Band leader. Though he told me his Dad, also Glenn met the bandleader’s brother, Harry, in England and brought back an autographed program. His brother was also a musician. But I digress. That evening, after the game, and after we had feasted on the buffet we retired to an outside bar and entertainment area. We were listening to a calypso guitarist singing. As a bit of humorous banter I gave the bartender the “Guess who I played golf with today?” routine. He said, “Who?” and I responded “Glenn Miller!” His response was a blank, a look that said “So, who’s Glenn Miller?” Ah, sic transit gloria mundi! (Just showing off since I’m studying Latin once again).

I read some good books while there. “Song of Solomon” by Toni Morrison, Paul Theroux, “My Other Life”, and an Elmore Leonard crime novel, whose title I now can’t recall. The six weeks was testing for me. It seems I passed since I am looking forward to returning to “full” retirement come September. Here’s something I wrote one morning in our new paradise:

“It’s 7AM and as I walk down the palm tree-lined avenue to retrieve a morning paper, I see a full moon still visible in the early light. The temperature is already 70 degrees. I walk in shorts and sandals the two blocks for the paper. Along the way I’m listening to the wind “wishing” through the palms and fir trees high above us. I hear birdcalls of many nuances and description. Only the sound of an airplane growling through the sky reminds one of the rests of the world out there. Another day dawns in Shore Acres.”

The poetic beginning of that day (4/23) was quickly shattered with a tornado watch being issued .It was another first for us. It was posted that morning for the area, although primarily north of Tampa. The sky darkened, it was “Darkness at Noon” in St. Pete’s. It stayed with us until 4PM. A tornado was cited maybe 50 or 60 miles north of us. We dined out that night a the Santa Madeira, in Madeira Beach and returning home we noted there was a “full moon” shining brightly above us.

On the 26^th of April I had a contest with Mother Nature, literally. I arose early to take Mary Lou to the Tampa Airport. It was raining like a waterfall. There was no sleeping even If you had not needed to get up due to the noise of the rain. I managed to get Mary Lou to the airport around 8:30. At times we were driving no faster than 30 mph due to the flood of water cascading down the road. There is a seven-mile bridge across the Bay that was even more, if possible, torrential. Mary Lou’s plane was delayed due to the weather. I waited till after 10 and hoped the occasional break in the rain would make a return trip a bit easier. I left the airport around 10:30 and still encountered rain but stayed on the expressway as long as possible. As I neared the area of Shore Acres one of the main cross streets (4^th and 38^th) was flooded to a depth of almost 2 feet, so I worked my way around it and soon was heading down Connecticut Avenue (a main thoroughfare into Shore Acres) but at a crawl since the water was nearly a foot with more falling. I tried one street and then backed out. I finally came to a connecting street and started down. I noted a number of stalled vehicles and I maneuvered around them. I got within 200 yards of our comer, Massachusetts and Venetian, when “bang” everything stopped. I saw a few other people standing in front of a house opposite where I was stalled. I went up and they commiserated with me. The homeowner, a Bill Bernhardt, said the combination of the high tide, the flood of rain, and that this was one of the lowest spots on the street made it impassable. He gave me his phone number and I waded home, only a short block away. I called back about an hour later, around twelve-thirty, and he said the water had receded. I walked to the car and it thankfully, started right up and I drove home. We later learned that we had a record rainfall of nearly 7 inches on that day. We also learned that Shore Acres at high tide with heavy rains is like Sea Isle and

Avalon, the bay backs up through the drainage pipes and brings water onto the highway. Mary Lou’s plane never left until 12:30 or so, and she missed her connecting flight. They took care of her however and she eventually got back to

Philly. She enjoyed her visit so much she couldn’t stop talking about getting her employer to get a branch office in St. Pete’s. I believe if she could’ve of gotten a ride back to Shore Acres when the flight was delayed she might have just done so!

Last weekend we visited the newest member of our family, Hannah Elizabeth McSorley, and her parents and sister, Dan, Lori, and Meaghan. We spent Friday night through Sunday night in the thriving metropolis of Hilton, N.Y. – home of the Hojack Railroad Station, Hovey Square, and the Hilton Diner, aka, The Hilton Family Restaurant.

Hannah, now two months and bit, is a petite little lady. After seeing Alex and Aidan (now close to 15 lbs.) Hannah easily personified “delicate and dainty” but just as awesome as her cousins. She has a cast on each of her little legs from under the knees to the ankle. She tosses them around with ease and loves to watch them strike her hanging toys. She lies under Mickey, Pluto, and Donald Duck. If she makes them move by hitting them with her encased legs, it brings “Ahs and Oohs” with a big smile from her. One striking feature of Hannah is her eyes. They are blue on blue, light on dark, and very bright and constantly peering about while she produces a myriad of faces, of which the pout is the best. She is a beautiful addition to our family and we pray that the leg problem may soon be resolved.

Hannah’s sister Meaghan is a dynamo (as most little people seem to be around her age) and a performer. She fits right in with her cousins, Linda, Meg, and Kate (we omitted Colleen in this listing because “she’s something else!” Which is what she herself will tell you if you ask). We went to see Meaghan perform on Friday night at the Lutheran School. She sang in a small play about Daniel in the Lion’s Den. “Singing” is one of her forte. She seems to have an in-exhaustive memory for the words and she articulates them like an elocution instructor. (Incidentally, the school is at St. Paul’s Lutheran and we attended Mass at St. Leos. Dan pointed out they have the old man covered.) Meaghan loves words and teasing her Pop-pop. She noticed he was sneaking some jellybeans while reading. She immediately inquired of Grandmom if this was “allowed”. Grandmom advised “No!” Meaghan than began a campaign to rid me of the candy. She managed to get to it and hid it away…just to take care of her Pop-pop with Grandmom’s blessing! She loves playing with words. We were talking about a pelican I painted at Rich and Shirley’s home while we were in St. Pete’s It is a lawn decoration that had become worn and ragged looking, even its beak was broken. With Shirley’s permission I painted it. Pelicans, in real life, are ugly birds. They are gray, black, dirty white and waddle about with beaks that almost touch the ground in front of them as the walk. The only graceful and beautiful thing about them is when they are in flight. I decided my pelican would be more attractive so I used white, brown, tan, turquoise, silver, gold, and some green in redoing the piece. When it was completed I dubbed it “Paul’s Pretty Pelican” Meaghan like the alliteration and began aloud to add some “p’s”. She said: “Pop-pop Paul’s Pretty Pelican” and then she says: “How about this: “Pop-pop Paul’s Perfect Pretty Pelican”. As we said, Meaghan loves words.

Sunday Dan and I took Meaghan to the “Strong Museum” in Rochester. It is primarily a depository for the Collector Ms. Strong’s Collection, but it also has a Kid-to-Kid section where they can make believe by dressing up, acting as postal clerks, sailors, super market clerks, etc. They had a Victorian Room where they can dress as they did in those days, which Meaghan did. In the room there was an upright piano from 1903 similar to the one we had in our sitting room at 4116. So Pop-pop got to make believe and played some piano. The young girls tending the room enjoyed the interruption from their routine and one of them had a book “Adult Piano Course” sitting on the piano. I had fun explaining to her what “faking” was all about. It always surprises me that so many people though interested in music have never heard of a “Fake Book” or of this method of playing.

If the performances and presence of Hannah and Meaghan weren’t enough to keep the visitors happy, Lori did one better with great home cooked meals. She had meals of stuffed shells, chicken crepes, and a pork chop dish. It made, as you may have well surmised for a “great” weekend. Oh! Yes I nearly forgot! On my early morning walks I took in the sites of Hovey Square, and Hojack RR station (the last train was in 1978) and had coffee in the Hilton Diner with some of the local inhabitants.

Vide Valeque!

(Enjoy & See Ya! in Latin, or close enough)

Ron and Mary (and Co.),

Hope to see you often before Sept. 19^th – anticipated Settlement date and hearing.

Love, Dad

“Remember that feeling of being totally and utterly relaxed? All your senses are tuned up. Your body and your mind are on the same planet for a change and every experience is heightened just a little. You feel it when you discover a place where you can unwind, breathe a little, and let yourself remember who you really are.”

This quote aptly describes the last six weeks. It appeared in a travel flyer, advertising would you believe, Canada! But then I suppose the place itself is not entirely responsible for that” feeling of being totally and utterly relaxed”. Yet I am able to affirm that the place…St Petersburg, Florida, more particularly Shore Acres, certainly contributed a major portion of my relaxing. It also contributed to my being out of touch via these scribbles with my good friends and family. I can assure you, or warn you if you please, that when we are finally settled in Paul’s Paradise we will have this trusty word processor available to continue our rambles.

(It is the ides of April, or Tax Day, if you prefer, and I am sitting in the library of St. Petersburg (North Branch) typing this. I discovered that you could use this word processor without charge, even if you were not a member of the library. You can’t be a member until you are a resident, home ownership is not sufficient…so it will be in future.)

“Easter Happens!! Christ is raised!! “These were the words of the priest on this Easter Mom in St. Petersburg, Fl. The church is nearly full. He, the priest-pastor, illustrates this Easter as happening by reciting examples of human problems being faced and conquered by Faith and Belief. One of these illustrations:

A young mother stands over a small white casket in which her five-year-old daughter, seemingly asleep, lies dead. The mother stands looking down into the casket clutching a small yellow blanket, one that had been the daughter’s favorite. She steps forward and lays the blanket over the child tucking it along the sides and feet of the child, then she leans closer and kisses the child, saying, “See you in the morning!” Easter Happens!

This excellent inspirational talk was delivered Easter Mom in the Lutheran Church of the Cross, in Shore Acres, St. Pete’s (Shore Acres is an area in St. Pete’s near the Tampa Bay; it would be like referring to “Lawndale” or “Foxchase” in Philly). The church is a new building. It was dedicated in 1990. It is formed similar to an amphitheater with the altar in center front. Behind the altar are choir seats, organ, and piano in a semicircle facing the congregation. The congregation sits in pews that are on separate levels rising up from the altar area to the rear of the church.

We have walked this sunny pleasant morning from our temporary home to the church. We are staying at Rich and Shirley’s home (often referred to erroneously as “John’s House in Florida”). It is a 10-minute walk. Our new home will be in the same area in a little different direction. But it will be not much further in the time it takes to walk here. The walk to church reminds of the walks to Sunday Mass in Sea Isle City to St. Joseph’s. The weather and the surroundings are conducive to this reverie. The wide open spaces between homes, few if any sidewalks, a warm sun with a little breeze and no humidity all remind one of those halcyon days of summer in Sea Isle.

This had to be our easiest Florida jaunt yet. What made it so was the addition of “audio books”. We listened to Michael Crichton’s “Air Frame” on Friday, and Steve Martini’s “The List” on Saturday. Each book took about 4 hours. We were listening to the conclusion of Martini’s novel as we approached the “seven mile” bridge from Tampa to St. Petersburg. We’ll never take a long drive again without an audio book or two. Along with those novels we had “A Reporter’s Life” by Walter Cronkite, which I listened to while June did needle point. June is not into memoirs.

We received a phone call on the evening of April 1 from the Pastor of the Lutheran Church. When you attend, as we did on Easter Sunday, there is a pen and papers requesting your name and address. It also asks if you are a visitor, member of another church, or you wish some one to call. We merely listed our address at Rich and Shirley’s no phone number, and no request for a call. So the call was a bit of a surprise. Pastor Gerry’s voice was a resonant as it was when he spoke on Easter Morning. I was very happy to tell him how we enjoyed his remarks and in the course of praising his remarks, I used the expression “his eulogy”. When I hung up June noted that it was hardly a “eulogy”. I immediately reverted to my lawyer persona and tried to defend my use of the term. I went so far as to defend its use as a word used to praise the deceased Jesus, saying something like it was a speech in praise of the departed! But June aptly pointed out: “We were celebrating Jesus’” resurrection, not his death!” I had tried to justify what was clearly a mistake, and then further defend it in “bad” attorney fashion. It would have been better to have laughed and not try to explain it. However, lawyer-ing stays with us even when we hang up the shingle…and retire. But mistakes and apologies aside, we were flattered by the call. It was particularly touching since some one had to take the trouble to look up the phone number and he took the time to make the call. We were impressed with his reaching out and continued to attend while we were in Shore Acres.

I am losing track of time, as I started to write these notes I had to go check the date (it is 4/3/1970). I stopped wearing a watch, except if I remember, when we go for a walk. That is so we can know how long we walked. It’s an old habit from the running days of keeping records. We visited one of our old “hangouts” last night. The Leverock Restaurant near Madeira Beach. A “hangout” these days is where we dine out. When we arrived at the restaurant it appeared physically the same. The water was still out there, a channel running between the main land and Madeira Beach; the menu was the same, it still had our favorite “onion encrusted salmon” but then we noticed it was not called “Leverock” but the “Waterfront Steak House”. We inquired from our waitress when the ownership had changed. She advised, or more exactly, she declared: “We have nothing to do with Leverock!!” It seems that Leverock had not been owners since Dec. 1996. Our emphatic waitress than proceeded to forget to bring June’s requested ice water, and brought both of us the wrong soup! June quipped: “It would seem Leverock would probably have nothing to do with her either!” Despite its poor beginning it was an excellent meal and will continue to remain on our “hangout” list.

It’s been a week now since we arrived. Yesterday (4/4) we visited Clearwater Beach and walked along the Gulf of Mexico. It’s that big green blob on the geography map between Texas and Florida We witnessed a beautiful sunset reminding of us the ones before in Avalon.

A book review caught my eye. It was of a book entitled “Handwriting in America: a history of penmanship” The review writer was fascinated with the subject since he, like I, had been subjected to the “Palmer Method” of handwriting. I can still remember Sister Saint Arthur standing next to my desk with her “clicker” watching as I made my letters. I probably remember it because I repeated first grade and had St. Arthur once again! The letters were displayed on poster board around the room. Capitals were on top row and the lower case beneath. Good writing was so important that we had constant reminders in every First Grade Room. Now even prior to Kindergarten writing proper letters is the big thing.

The reviewer and author of the book both noted that a “handwritten” note today is rare. The Saturday Evening Post in 1955 stated: “…handwriting is as obsolete as smoke signals…due to telephones, typewriters, dictating machines, etc.” It is now “more” obsolete, if that is possible, with word processors, E-mail, faxes, etc. Yet, there was a time when man or woman’s handwriting was the measure of their character and class. Then writing became universal and soon was replaced by type and the printed word. However, even today producers of word processor programs are promoting “personalizing” your type with different fonts. There is even a program to personalize your signature for the PC.

This renunciation of handwriting art has made us a nation of scribblers. It has been at a sacrifice of “the idea that appearance of words is part of their meaning, the script is a public presentation of the private self; that surface is part of substance.” It would seem that the current interest in calligraphy is a return to that belief. We have admired our daughter Mary’s practice of the art. One of my treasures is a poem written in a gothic script by my Sister Therese for my 50^th. We recently gave a beginners set to our granddaughter Kelly Golden because of her interest in the art.

Thinking of handwriting reminds me of my Dad. His scrawl was monumental. He had a weekly letter. It was typed. But it always had a handwritten note attached. Once in while when Rebecca (his secretary of 40 years) was unavailable, he did send a hand written note. He never learned to type (it was a secretary’s job, not a lawyer’s). The notes were sometimes so indecipherable that you just gave up and “winged ” it hoping it was something that needed no response. My reporting of my experience with Dad’s scratching reminded Winnie of a family secret. Her younger brother, Pat, later Father Pat, often sent his letters from Dad back to her for a translation! It seems Win was one of the few who could decipher Dad’s scrawl. Dad like most of us, even those Palmer Method trained joined the nation of scrawlers with the coming of type. It seems without Sister St. Arthur and her clicker” good” hand writing became as obsolete as “smoke signals”!

It is now the 25^th day of May. If I am ever going to get April-May Jottings off, I best stop here for the nonce. I will continue our reverie in paradise later. However, before I go, one more quote, apropos of my recent whining about response to my scribbling. It appeared in Paul Theroux’s novel, “My Secret Life”: “I want what most writers want: unqualified praise. Criticism is never helpful and always boring. If you cannot encourage me, please leave me alone” (p.296).

Vive Valqua! See ya and enjoy!

 

Some time last year, while visiting Dan and Lori, I came across an old “friend”, in the form of a book, I had read some twenty years ago. It was now “boxed” with a red ribbon attached as a page marker, in keeping with its now “classical” status. A book with a ribbon marker always reminds me of the “missal” we use to see on the altar at mass. So a book that has that attachment must be a classic, no? In any event, I had enjoyed the book in the early seventies and asked Dan if I could borrow it. He agreed.

The book is “The Miracle at Philadelphia”, the story of the Constitutional Convention of 1787 from May to September, written by Catherine Drinker Bowen. She was a historian at Bryn Mawr College, and incidentally from a family that could trace its line back to the 1780’s.As it says in the blurb in the book,” the locale was her birth place, where the Drinker family had been prominent since the eighteenth century.” She mentions only one in the book.

“Elizabeth Drinker of Philadelphia, considered an authority in physic, noted that she had cured a very bad sty with a rotten apple, and child’s deeply bruised foot with cataplasms of cow dung” (!) (p.l63).

This example shows in a small way what this book is, i.e., a “story”, not a documentary or just a report of the debates in the convention. It takes you to Philadelphia in 1787 and the gathering in Independence Hall in the secluded and closed chamber where delegates from 12 states meet, but adds the flavor of the climate, the customs, the things that were going on in the country and the world that impacted on these delegates. Congress, meeting still in New York City, sent the delegates there. They were sent to shore up, correct, or reform the then “Articles of Confederation” that were falling apart. The Articles were not working. A rebellion in Massachusetts, Shay’s Rebellion, was the catalyst that sent a clear message that states acting as independent countries, with their own money, custom charges at the borders, etc. etc. was leading to a Second Revolution or worse, they would become the victims of “outside influences” such as France or Spain etc., etc. So the Convention was called.

The book is a story, not a rehash of the Federalist Papers of Madison and Adams, but the human side of this “miracle”. Things like, the heat and humidity, no windows allowed open due to the secrecy, their living arrangements, the taverns they met in after hours and on the weekends, the mud and the dust of the streets (?), the quarrels between big states and small ones, the Yankees vs. the Virginians and other Southern gentlemen. It made the miracle a reality with its telling. It made one appreciate even more just what those men did there under G. Washington that summer of ’87.

It’s easy to say: “They created a new form of government” but the reality of the event strikes you even more when you see the struggles they have to so create. No system had existed prior thereto that elected two houses of legislatures. Not even the Greek States had such devices. Europe gave no help with it hereditary princely kingdoms, existing by force and descent. What authority would the states be willing to give to their new legislatures? Already, as we noted above, they acted like independent countries…issuing money and controlling their borders. In fact things were crumbling now that the 11 years since the Declaration and the four since the end of the war. It began to appear that the Revolution was the “glue” that kept the Federation together and without it, it was falling apart. Rhode Island was in such disarray that it did not send any delegates: New York appeared opposed to any reform that diminished the big states or control by the cultured and landowning citizens. A. Hamilton was a strong advocate of the English system with a President for life (a King?), and a House of noble personages (Lords?). His two companions were opposed to remaining at the convention after the Virginia Proposals were made the agenda…those proposals were for a far more “democratic” union then Hamilton’s ideas of a United Country.

But, my enthusiasm on rereading has led me to digress about the effect finding the book at Danny’s. It was like going back to a house you once lived in. It appears basically the same but the furniture and arrangements inside are different. So with my old friend from 1970 or so, this book. My time away had been spent in participating in this miracle in a small fashion in the city of the convention, Philadelphia. My interest in Thomas Jefferson led me to see some new furniture in the old house. My experience with the politics made some of that furniture very comfortable to look at and understand. All of these experiences made me nod yes, oh, yes, to statements like:

“Not the least surprising characteristic of the Federal Convention was that, contrary to the tradition of political assemblies, it let itself be swayed by men of thought and historical perspective.”

The author notes very well how seemingly inconsequential events, like a break in the Philly heat, affect the course of history.

“Perhaps the delegates would never have reached agreement, had not the heat broken. By Monday, July sixteenth, Philadelphia was cool after a month of torment: on Friday, a breeze had come in from the northwest. Over the weekend, members could rest and enjoy themselves, sleep comfortably in their narrow chambers at the lodging houses along Market Street or Second Street hill above the river. Even the mosquitoes were quiescent, though on the streets at noon the horseflies droned and darted.”

Another story I enjoyed was a legend about Washington. He had an aura of “noble, gentle, urbanity” and, “there is an anecdote, in different versions, concerning Governor Morris and the General, that summer of 1787.Perhaps the story is mere legend, but legends can be illustrative of truth. Morris announced in company that he was afraid of no man on earth, where upon Alexander Hamilton laid a bet that Morris would not dare to greet General Washington by a slap on the back. Brash, cheerful, self-assured, Morris entered a drawing room a few evenings later and found Washington standing by the fireplace. ‘Well, General!” said Morris, laying a hand on Washington’s shoulder. The General said nothing. But at once Morris knew his mistake and was ready, he said afterwards, to sink through the floor.”

The book was published in 1966. The edition I found at Dan’s was a reissue by the “Book of Month Club: The American Past” in 1986. It has a new introduction by Henry Steele Commager, a professor of history at Amherst College; Catherine Drinker Bowen died in 1973, another of hers that I remember, and was part of the series in 1986,was “A Yankee from Olympus” a portrait of Judge Oliver Wendell Holmes and his family. I believe I have also read that one…or should have! The book, like an old friend, needs time to learn what they been up to since we last met. I’m giving it as much as it needs and will report later on the results of our reunion.

Back here two hundred and ten years later, I am happy to report the twins; Aidan and Alex are progressing very well. They even sleep once in a while!

This jotting will be it until May. We are off on the 28^th of March to St. Petersburg and other such places until May 10^th. I have yet to find a way to take this one-eyed monster with me and my old portable is long gone, so we will wish you all a Happy Easter and try to send a few handwritten notes as we move about.

Ron and Mary: Enjoyed our visit… specially the dividend of seeing Katherine’s pictures of the trip to Alaska… who would have believed that 10 years ago there would come a day when I would be allowed in her home much less be so cordially greeted and entertained…another miracle of a little child… in this case children… “And a child shall lead them!”

 

I’ve had some complaints (criticism) about the nature of my Jottings. They are no longer a newsletter. I still hope you enjoy my ramblings and would appreciate any comments with that regard…I still keep remembering Sister Therese’s comment” Oh yes I like them, but what do you do With all the paper??(!!)”…Some have offered several suggestions none of which are printable in a family (news) letter…See you soon.

Love,

Dad

MEMORIES OF ST. PATRICK’S DAY PAST AND PRESENT

Here it is St. Patrick’s Day and I forgot to go down and play the piano. At “4116” the first to play the “Wearin’ of the Green” on St. P’s day got a dollar! On second thought, it might have been just a quarter! So once again I forgot…did the same last year. Must be a sign of my age and then with inflation it hardly seems worth the effort to disturb the house for only a dollar. Besides, I bet June wouldn’t recognize the tune, being non-Irish, and would not appreciate the early morning music. She prefers country western music to wake her, and I don’t know any Irish-American country-western music! But even though I missed the tradition I don’t miss some of the others that were supposedly the way to celebrate the day. I need not labor the point of the Irish’s occupational disease – drinking and all its waves of good then bad. I did see one St. P’s day card that made me chuckle. It wished you a “Happy St. Patrick’s Day to He who drove all the snakes out of Ireland!” on the front cover. Inside was this: “Yes! And they all became lawyers in America!!” Present company was excepted when a clerk in the Register of Wills office showed the card to me. It occurred to me later, she was married to a lawyer and had been divorced…so maybe her Vision is bit distorted. But it is still a day to think of the good things Irish and, of course, that must start with their wit. The book “Angela’s Ashes” F. McCourt’s, memoir is a great example of the wit helping one survive in the most deplorable conditions. If you can see something funny when you’re starving and living amidst filth, you must classify as a “wit”…some would say with a “nit” before it, but not when it is a condition not of your doing or ability to correct…like a drunken old man who can’t keep a job.

On other St. Pat’s days I remember celebrating with a 10 mile run at Somers Point, N.J. and earlier times in Longport, from the Longport Inn. They were always sponsored in part at least; by a bar…the Irish just can’t get too far from one when it comes to celebrating. The last one I remember running was with Paul Jr. and Bill. I think Bill did around 66 minutes, and Paul and I were back there around 89-90 minutes or so.

Today’s St. P’s day, 1997, has been spent mostly at home. I say mostly because June and I took a good 40 minute walk in brisk windy air. We managed to do some food shopping with it. I also did get to play some Irish tunes. I made my sometime weekly visit to the 4^th floor “Personal Care” dining room at Paul’s Run It has a piano and with the help of a “fake” book I played “Too-rao-loo-ra, Danny Boy, Little Bit of Heaven, I’ll Take You Home Again Kathleen”, and a few others to the captured audience as they ate their lunch. I have three clients in the group, or I should say “former” clients but now friends. The Personal Care Section is between “Independent Living as a Resident”, and “Skilled Nursing Care”. They receive meals, have help to get to the dining room, have their quarters cleaned, and even get help in bathing if necessary. Every time I go and play, I think of a letter on tape of Father Pat’s. He sent it to our gang after we had sent him one when he was in Germany. He thanked the kids for their songs, acts, etc. and admonished them to use whatever talents they had regardless of their estimation of those talents. So I, who feel my skill, as a piano player is limited, use his encouraging words to entertain where possible. It is, of course, true that they are all in the dining room for a meal and have no escape, but I still feel some of them enjoy the attention my just being there gives them…if they don’t I do!

Sometimes I feel I’m not too far from that room myself, somewhere between independent living and skilled nursing care. One day I almost proved it. I unknowingly got off on the wrong floor, the third. I went into the dining room and did notice my friends were not there but thought they maybe were just late. I sat down at the piano and began to play (by the way the piano faces a wall and my back is to the dining room). I then noticed the piano was a “player” piano with pump-pedals to turn the music roll (before CD piano players). I thought that’s strange. I never noticed that before. So I brashly said to one of the attendants serving the lunch…”What? They put a new piano in here??” “No” can1e the response “That’s been in there for months!” Then I peered about the dining room. I didn’t recognize anyone. Neither my friends nor their usual table companions…so sheepishly I asked… “Is this the 4th floor dining room?” “No” came the response… “It’s the third floor dining room!” So as I said I’m not too far from being one of the diners, somewhere between independent living and skilled nursing care!

Over the weekend we had our annual St. Patrick’s Day dinner. It was one of the regular shore events in years past .We continue it here with some of our regulars. This year Betty and Jerry Hopkins, fellow grandparents of the (other older) twins; Dan and Marge Walsh, our fellow travelers, and bon vivants of whatever; and Bill and Bunny King our old running buddy and his long suffering spouse. The meal was as usual excellent, the chatter invigorating, and some of us even kept at it till 9:30PM! Bill had to turn in earlier since just nine days earlier he had had a double hernia operation and was still recouping. Part of the chatter had to do with the dinner’s past and how we don’t miss the easy consumption of alcoholic beverages. This brought back memories of the many March 18^th holidays due to indigestion (?) and colds (?)! I just never had a hangover (ha!).

One of the memories recalled at the dinner came about my first piano. It· happened that Jerry or Betty inquired if we were taking the piano with us to Florida. We are, unless we see the need for it here, but that’s another story. Dan then piped up and said tell them about your first piano. He knew the story well since the first piano I owned was delivered to his new home in Maple Shade. He and Marge, newly weds brought a new house and the summer of 1952 I was their guest. No one was at 4116 and Mother was dying in Win’s home on Windsor Ave. I was living up to my mother’s lament “Poor Paul is going from Pillar to Post!” I never quite knew what she meant or what the saying meant…or could it have been from Pillar to Pillow?? So I was invited to stay with the newly weds. In June I ordered the new Wurlitzer spinet since I expected to be with my new landlords (rent free of course) until September when I would go back to law school and live somewhere near by. I learned that for $21 a month for three months you could have the new piano delivered to your home and then after the three months, the down payment now having been made it was “expected” you would finance the balance. It was their belief that the three-month period we be sufficient for the purchaser to not want to lose it. Little did they know about budding piano-playing lawyers! The new piano was an item in the neighborhood of new homes and newly weds. It raised an eyebrow or two as it was moved into the Walsh’s new home. The summer came. Paul went back to school. He notified the Wurlitzer Company that he decided not to keep the piano. So out went the truck and out came the piano. Once again raising eyebrows with the assertion I’m sure of some, “See, I told ya so!” Dan and Marge remember it with good humor and the fond recollection of what it added to that then bare living room.

Whenever I think of this day and the Irish I find myself recalling the recent book by T. Cahill, “How the Irish saved Civilization”, and its tribute to the Irish and St. Patrick’s great contribution to the Western world…its conserving of the Greek and Roman classics along with the Jewish and Christian works. But I particularly enjoy re-reading the introductory remarks by the author, that note:

“The word Irish is seldom coupled with the word civilization…The Irish are wild, feckless, and charming, or morose, repressed, and corrupt, but not especially civilized. If we strain to think of “Irish Civilization”, no images appear, no Fertile Crescent or Indus Valley, no brooding bust of Beethoven.” How true! Unfortunately in America the image is one of a glad-handing drinking politician or Barry Fitzgerald, the stumbling well-meaning Priest.

These are some of my memories of Paddy’s days past and present may they now become part of yours. PLMCS.

Ron and Mary,

I’m saving my report of the dual christening until the next issue. Hope to get to see you both before that!

Love,

Dad

Every time I see the word “February” I wonder where it came from, don’t you? I’m sure next to balancing your household budget this is one of the most important concerns in your busy lives! So to save you the ordeal of relieving that concern, let me tell you what I’ve learned about the word. It is derived from the Latin word, Februarius that refers to the Februm or Festival of Purification…or the month of expiation as celebrated by the Sabines. I can see why it never be came a household word in English! But now that you know I feel happy to have relieved you of your distress (?).

These jottings begin in the quaint village of St. Michael’s a resort town on the Eastern Maryland shore. It was made famous as the town where Ron proposed to Mary a few year’s ago.

Incidentally, as I type this report on Thursday 2/20 Mary is about to give birth to twins. Keep tuned!

The town reminded me of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. It has Victorian type houses, an enormous stone church, St Michael’s from which the town gets its name, and things nautical and antique abounding. It is described, in the travel material provided by the net, as “…the oldest town in Talbot County and an important shipbuilding center during the War of 1812, is a casually elegant resort locale, home to many wealthy retirees who live in the secluded houses tucked away on coves and creeks.” In February, like most resort towns, St. Michaels is quiet and many shops, and tourist amenities closed but it is a great place for walks and dining even in

February. We stayed in the Harbor Inn & Marina on the water opposite the town. It was under renovation so we shared the 3^rd floor with carpenters, painters, wall paperers (?), and unfortunately for June some early (7AM) morning walking, talking, and hammering. The town has a memorial to commemorate the birthplace of Frederick Douglas who was born a slave there in 1833. He rose to be an ambassador for our country after escaping to the North. He was an orator and an abolitionist. The town abounded with enormous holly trees, not bushes, trees. We figured it must be the soil, climate, etc. June, my botanist, pointed them out and surmised by size and extent they must have come with the original settlers from England.

We came to celebrate our love and marriage in this week of Valentine’s. It had been made possible, in part, by Christmas gift from our children. We had good weather despite several scare reports of forthcoming snow and/or rain, sleet, etc.

On Ash Wednesday we drove to Annapolis, Md. across the Bay Bridge. It sits on the opposite shore, on the mainland of the state of Maryland. We took a walking tour with Walter Cronkite narrating, of the historically preserved town. In the domed state house we saw the room where in 1783 the U.S. Congress met and accepted the resignation of George Washington as Commander in Chief. The first time the principle of the military being subject to the civilian authority was put into practice. A script written by Thomas Jefferson, what the congress, should do when the General entered “stand, remove their hats, replace their hats and sit”, staged the resignation. The General also had his part delineated by the versatile Tom. They had a mannequin of Washington in full uniform standing in the front of the room facing the seats of the Congressmen. In the room opposite the Congressional room was one of Maryland History. We saw the most elaborately etched silver: a punch bowel with some 20 or 30 drawings depicting the history of the State. The cups to the bowl had on each of them a story of the State hero. All of this came from the first USS

Maryland. Some pieces have now been return for display on the USS Maryland Nuclear Sub now on active duty.

We lunched in the Market Square and then debated whether to visit the interior of some of the homes open for such inspection, or tour the Naval Academy. June voted for the Naval Academy tour but I was reluctant to do so but agreed. It was a great choice! “Reluctant Paul” enjoyed it more than the historic tour (brings back a memory of a Whale watch tour some months ago where a similar incident with like result occurred).

What impressed me the most about the Naval Academy was the numbers. It has 4000 students, who all live on the campus in one main dorm with wings extending from it. There are extensive play areas since all midshipmen must participate in some physical activities, so playing fields, pools, courts, abound. Shortly after the visit we read in the Baltimore Sun that the four years cost at the academy is $87, 000. It is paid by endowments similar to Harvard, and other Ivy League Schools. The government pays the wages of the employees, and the midshipmen are paid as seamen. I confirmed what I also believed to be a fact, that the student may choose any course of studies as a major. In fact, one of the teachers in Physics was Nobel Prize winner for his work in space. The tour made us feel that this would be a great place for the twins. Their athletic and scholastic skills would meet an equal challenge here on the Severne. Incidentally, the pay the midshipmen receive is basic subsistence. Parents, like all parents of college students, still might be required to contribute. All students must have a P.C. or purchase one. Loans are easily obtained, and why not, this graduate will have a job for sure for at least four years after graduation, as an Ensign in the U. S. Navy. The failure rate of repayment on student loans here must be near zero!

One day, in St. Michaels, we had lunch at the Carpenter Street Tavern (it’s on Talbot St. at Carpenter if you’re looking for it). While June and I waited for our food June noticed one of the several paintings covering the walls. This one had a sign beneath it reading “Prints available”. It was a large painting, some 3 to 4 feet in length, and 1 to 1 1/2 feet across. It depicted what appeared to be the sea, or water, falling over an edge from near the top of the painting clear to the bottom. On the water, at the top, about to topple over the edge was a sailing ship similar in style to the Pinto, Nina, or Santa Marie. A few feet behind that ship came another of like make approaching the abyss. The left side of the painting had nothing…not even clouds in the sky. In the forefront of that ship was a lifeboat full of rowers struggling against the surge of water pulling them toward the abyss. The painting was well done in clarity and color but the item that caught our eye was the caption. It simply read: “I told you so!” These are words I have often heard over the years but hope to hear less of in the future We discussed purchasing a print but declined since its size presented a problem. Our new home will have even less wall space than we presently have…so we passed on the purchase but kept the smile and the memory!

(It is, as I type Sunday Morning, February 23,1997,and we have two new boys in the world. Mary gave birth after long hours of labor to Leo Alexander hereafter known as “Alex”, @ 1 AM and Aidan Patrick @ 6 AM. Mother is doing well. Babies are in intensive care for the moment but with assurance of nothing to worry about. They totaled 14 plus pounds!! Deo Gratias!)

Thursday we drove across the Eastern Shore peninsula to the town of “Ocean City” a place where June had camped years ago. It is not at all similar to Ocean City, N.J. It is more like Myrtle Beach with its shops, hotel, condos, and apartments right down to the beach. Its beach is like Jersey’s white sand without dunes. There was one dune and it was celebrated with a fence and signs rejoicing in its existence. June had remembered a boardwalk and it was still there. It was more a concrete-walk although there was one section where there were boards. It was very long probably as long as Atlantic City’s. It sits right on the sand. The beach and walk are on the same level, not like our Jersey walks that are raised above the beach. After the walk in the cold wind, we drove up the main (almost the only north-south road) street. We went up to a 136th street and then found we were entering the state of Delaware. The ride was through built up areas similar to Myrtle Beach with high rises, hotels, shops, malls, etc. etc. As we drove we could see water to our right and left in a number of places…as in Whale Beach north of Sea Isle City.

Friday, St. Valentine’s Day, we had to exit the Harbor Inn, so we drove over the Bay Bridge again up to the city of Baltimore. We stayed in the Inner Harbor and celebrated the day of love at the Chart House restaurant. The Chart House is one of our favorites here in Philly but the Baltimore version was a disappointment in one way…no mammoth salad bar…but it was a fine meal. The day was spent in reading and a short walk. I was able to finish one of my Christmas gifts Neil Simon’s memoir, “Rewrites”. As with his plays his humor permeates the book. He wrote 29 plays in 34 years and had as many as three on Broadway at one time. The book covers his life up to 1973 (he was in his 40’s) when his wife died of cancer. His love for her fills the book. He made something clearer to me that I already knew or felt. He had to rewrite on many time when the written word was spoken on the stage. He compared it to the reader giving a voice and character to the person in a novel. We give that character in our mind a personality. So when it is portrayed by a movie or a play if it doesn’t match our concept of that personality you are apt to say: “The book was better!”

We close with a sad note. We’ve just learnt that Dan Walsh’s brother-in-law, Stanley Karminski, just died – the circle of life in just a few days once again. We will try to add a short note to each of you.

As promised I am enclosing a copy of Andrew’s short story entitled “Late October in an Empty Town”!

A new year, a new day, with a brand new number to remember because it is January, the month of the two faced god – one to look forward and one to look back. Looking forward we see a new life for the Jolter in the midst now of slowly disengaging himself from the business of law and looking forward to a change in venue.

Looking backward, through the eyes of Suzanne M. McSorley in a tome resurrected while cleaning a closet in the office…it was her “thesis” entitled:

“THE METAMORPHOSIS OF REFORM: Ethnic Politics and The Social Issue in Philadelphia, 1962-1975” The period was my most active time in the political arena, so it was fun to reminisce and read of the battles of those days. It is a “tome” i.e. 8 1/2″ by 11” bound typewritten 280 pages of text, graphs, charts, and maps. It is not to be read in bed. It is similar to an unabridged dictionary and is best read while it is resting on a stand. Eight of those pages by the way are “bibliography” if any of you choose to further explore the subject. If you didn’t know that Sue had published such a volume, it is not surprising. I as the Father and some time bill payer had the privilege of receiving a bound copy of her thesis in the form of “receipt” for three years at Princeton. The thesis by the way enabled her to skip her fourth year and jump right into Columbia Law School.

I loved her acknowledgement: “My deepest gratitude to Tom who believed, more than I did, that one could be a law student and human being and finish a thesis at the same time.”

He is still a believer now that she is a lawyer, housewife, mother, and liturgical assistant, surprise party giver and receiver…etc., etc. Her work also confirms that Arlen Specter was a turncoat opportunist in 1967…no change there in 30 years!

I have been reading another book sent to me by Bill King. It is written by a friend and runner of both of us. It is “Going the Distance” by George Sheehan M.D. He was a cardiologist and lived in North Jersey by the sea. George and I had some things in common. He was one of 14 children, adopted a profession for a career after attending Manhattan College, where he ran the mile and the 1500 meters. He fathered 12 children, ran at least 21 marathons…the number he ran at Boston. He wrote a monthly column in several running and running related magazines. His columns became books. One was “Personal Best” which I had him autograph in 1992 in Atlantic City at the 20th anniversary of the running of its marathon. I did a 1/2 marathon…the last one and was first in my age group (over 80).

His writing, like himself, is very introspective and philosophical. He, though always a friendly guy, was not, as pointed out in the intro, a “high fiver”. In 1986 he contracted prostrate cancer. He continued to run and fight the good fight. The book is a report of that fight…the final years, i.e., going the distance. It is a moving document in its depth and humor. He died on Nov. 1, 1993…All Saint’s Day…a bit of irony George would have enjoyed. His epilogue, as his preamble writer notes is all the people he touched in a life of active participation in all of its facets.

I remember one other time we met. It was in Asbury Park Marathon in the ’80s. It was a cold a windy day. He caught me with less than a 1/2 mile to go and out ran me. He then proceeded to get ill…tossing his cookies. He complained to me how the old competition just wouldn’t let me stay ahead and now he was paying for it. He always was better 1500 man, or as we called them, dashers. I saw him several times at Sea Isle’s 10-mile beach run.

His book is full of witty and sagacious observations about the final race…death. At about the same time I was perusing it I came across a very appropriate quote by Montaigne:

“Fortune appears sometimes purposely to wait for the last years of our lives in order to show us she can overthrow in one moment what she has taken long years to build. In this last scene between death, and us there is no more pretense. We must use plain words, display such goodness and purity as we have at the bottom of the pot.”

George does this precisely. Even the subject matter, death, though treated seriously is not without humor. He notes that he had run out of subjects to write about so along comes this disease and it terminal nature, giving him a sure topic. He only wrote from his own experience and knowledge of the subject matter so here was a ready made one!!

I was particularly moved by a report of a talk he gave just a few years before his death in Unitarian Church in San Diego. The topic was “What’s New in Training, Nutrition, and Injuries” The questions however started to run deeper than training for races, carbo-loading and the like.

“What are your main concerns?”

Another “What would you do differently?” and then “Have you become more religious?” says George:

“They were looking at me as elder and wondered what happened after a lifetime of running and with time running out.

I was silent for a time. Then, my arms in front of me, palms upward as if in supplication, I looked heavenward and asked, “Did I win?”

It was a question of a schoolboy being asked by some just a few years short of being truly old. I have spent my life playing a game in which I am not sure of the rules or the goal. At this point I was asking whoever is in charge the big question: “Did I win?”…

Although I am seventy something, I still wonder whether I played this game of life well enough to win. It is so difficult to know what really mattered. It’s as if all my life was spent studying for the final examination, and now I am not sure just what was important and what wasn’t.

Did I win? Do any of us know? Is there anything we have done that assures us we have passed the test? Can we be sure we did out best at whatever it was that we were supposed to do? When Robert Frost was in his sixties he wrote, “I am no longer concerned with good and evil. What concerns me is whether my offering will be acceptable.” Frost wrote some hard things – and this may be the hardest and truest of all. The answer to the question “Did I win?” is “Yes, if your offering is acceptable.”

I am still working on mine (p. 134-136)

Well, we might answer: “Aren’t we all George?”

Our two faced god looking backward could also see the year’s second surprise party. This party is for Bill at the usual “surprise party headquarters” – Sue and Tom’s. He reached the golden age of 40 and he was surprised!!! Our friendly two faced observer could also see that five (5), yes FIVE, years ago I had my last taste of alcohol and I still don’t miss it…and just three years ago this month I took ride through the frozen city to Hahnemann Hospital to have my plumbing adjusted.

Now looking ahead we are happy to report another McSorley has been published! Andrew J. to be precise. His story was published in the Fall Issue of the Great Lakes Review. The review is a literary magazine of the State University of N.Y. at Oswego. I hope later to reproduce the story, with the author’s permission, and send it on. He learned of the publication only after the fact. They didn’t check with him first…but he still very happy about the matter!

An update on my leaving the practice: Richard T. and a friend James Millar, have agreed to rent the office beginning Feb. 1, 1997. I have physically moved out. I returned the other day to see a computer on my old desk and picture of a young man, obviously Jim’s son beaming out at me. It was a strange feeling…like returning to your old home where others now live and reminiscing. But I am still tied to a few matters. My last adoption hearing is set for Jan 28^th in Doylestown. I have two other domestic matters winding down along with two Estates to complete…all I hope by the time we leave for a short visit to Petersburg in April.

I see once again I’m making these notes a bit too long…so with the hope to drop each of you a personal note…I’ll see ya!

Ron & Mary: Enclosed please find check for $150 bumper money…hope it takes the dent of your rear…bumper that is…June dreamed last night that Mary had two boys …put that in with the rest of the reported UFO sightings and other such certitudes… Hope for both the time is no longer than Valentine’s Day…Heard you got a good haul at the rain party…or shower…but according to Paul Jr. it was more like a rain party when it came to the gifts…is it a fact you have to buy another car since you got so many baby car seats??? No! Keep in touch and watch those guys in your rear…Love, Dad…