Paul McSorley's Jottings

The rites of spring have taken control – the annual excuse to avoid doing what we ought. It has affected me in my scribbling so that I find myself with the month nearly gone and little recorded. Thus, I offer the standard excuse and advise that due to all these busy times my offering for April will be short. (A sigh of relief is heard throughout the land!)

The next thing I recall about big brother, Frank, was his installation as a Bishop in 1958. It then reminded me of his prior honor of being named Prefect of Sulu. Winnie advises that it came at approximately the same time I was getting married, in October 1954. The mystery was – what were a “Prefecture” and a “Prefect”? But no one was really certain. Win advises that neither the Catholic Encyclopedia nor the Pastor of St. Francis could really explain. It, however, seemed to come down to a deputy Bishop, or a Bishop on “probation”, i.e., if he does well the next step is to make him a “real” Bishop, etc., etc. As it transpired, that was what occurred.

In 1958 Frank was named the Bishop of Jolo, Sulu, and Archbishop O’Hara officially installed him here in Philadelphia. I think I already reported the humorous observation made at the luncheon for the priests and seminarians of the diocese, i.e., the way to get to be a Bishop was to fail at St. Charles and then go serve in some far away place in a little known Order. There was a large celebration, but it is all a blur now.

The blur of memory was commented upon in a recent New York Times Sunday column. The author, a woman, noted that, “Memories are like fool’s gold. We tell ourselves that they are firm and shining treasures that we can store and relive forever. No matter what pains or losses life may impose on us, at least it cannot take from us our memories”.

Ah! It is well-named “fool’s gold”, since the truths are those precious moments we swear will last forever are so difficult to recall, even without the infirmities of age and/or disease. It is never more dramatic than these attempts of mine to report what happened 40 years or so ago, but we shall persevere.

The 60s were filled with Fund Raisers for the Vicariate (it moved up from a Prefecture) of Jolo. They were held at St. Alice’s Church in Upper Darby, a gift of Bishop McDevitt, the pastor. They consisted of nights at the races and/or dancing. How much was raised I couldn’t even recall, but they were fun and it broadened Frank’s mailing list. He spent six months or so in the Vicariate and the other six or so travelling the U.S. soliciting funds. The pace never let up and his emphysema, etc., never really lessened, so that the “Bull of the Internment” in the 40s was beaten down in the 60s. He went to heaven as the 70s opened (11/19/70).

During this period a better reporter might be Richard P. McSorley, John’s eldest son. He went out to Jolo, sometime in that period and continued his studies at the Oblate College. He recently volunteered to speak up when we reached this period. So Rich, let’s hear from you! At least let Richard T., S.J. be the recipient of your memories, after all, it was his idea and impetus that started these recollections in the first place.

Today is Sunday, April 23rd. I am about to run into Franklin Field after a stroll up West River Drive, etc., etc. A 20K run (12.4 miles). As reported earlier, it is a run of memories, due to the “Penn Relays”, “Franklin Field” and all that mingles with that event and place in the past.

And now the run is done! It was an outstanding day weather wise for a run, 40-50 degrees, sun, little wind. It was a scenic run from Franklin Field to the West River, up to the East Falls Bridge and then turn around and come back to the stadium. They did not have the announcer who lets those in attendance know who has just entered the stadium, I last recall it when I was 62, so it’s been three years since I last ran this one.

What a pleasant surprise at the start to run into, or rather he came over to me, Joseph Conrad. He was my intensive care nurse at Hahnemann. He introduced me to his girlfriend. He was as proud of me as I was happy to be there. I was introduced to another technician who was there, as a living testimonial of Joe’s good work. And I am that – he was outstanding. We both recalled my Black Friday – the day after the operation when I was at my worst. He obtained some blood and turned me around. He, it turns out, is also a runner and had known of me through that and my sons. He was a classmate of Tom’s in high school. He caught up with me during the run at the halfway point. I ran with his girlfriend a few steps. She said “He promised to stay with me halfway and then off he goes”. And off he went!

The bypass was a subject later in the day when I visited Sr. Rosemary at Abington Hospital. She went in on Saturday morning after complaining to Anne. I spent a few minutes with her. Anne was there to take care of her younger sister. Roie will have a catheterization on Tuesday or Wednesday and hopefully it will answer her questions.

The question is answered. She is, as I write, about to have a bypass at Temple University Hospital and join her brothers and sisters and confirm our tendency to have plugged arteries, even in spite of our lifestyle. We wish her well and hope to get to see her soon.

We had another mishap in the Dorcas Street household. No intensive care necessary. On Thursday last (4/20) June poked herself in the eye with the antenna from the portable phone. She had called me from outside in the backyard because she was unable to turn on the outside spigot. On walking back into the house she collided with the screen and then the punch in the eye. When I arrived home she had a very red and puffy left eye, but seemingly little pain. She was waiting for the doctor to return her call.

He called and she visited him at 2 p.m. and we were on our way at 3 p.m. to Wills Eye Hospital. The preparation nurse took all the info, examined her and had her sight checked. Everything completed we waited for the doctor. While waiting the nurse, her name was Mary, said, “Are you any relation to Bishop McSorley?” – another amazing reminder of the Bishop and his circle. She knew of him from someone in Drexel Hill.

The doctor came and all was well. No damage to the eye, but it would be ugly for some weeks. I suffered the slings and arrows of the accused husband and was advised to pick a better spot next time I wanted to send her to the moon! We were relieved. June’s headache began to recede with the help of Tylenol. The 5 p.m. traffic made us decide to take a walk, through Washington Square and down to Second Street. It brought back memories of June working. She worked at 3rd & Walnut (almost 4th) near Old St. Joseph’s on Willings Alley and then later at 2nd and Chestnut across the street from the Philadelphia Fish Co. restaurant. It was a place we had frequented during her working days, so we decided to have dinner there. It was an enjoyable end to a crisis. June returns to the clinic on May 2nd, only since then she suffered another blow. On Tuesday while walking very, very briskly, as she is wont to do, she tripped and fell. She bruised her ribs, fingers, wrists, sides, etc., etc. Just one general ache. Fortunately, nothing was broken, but I’m convinced she’s becoming a klutz.

Time heals all wounds!! Especially bruises. But it’s easy for me to say, I’m not healing, and when I think about Roie it reminds me how “patient” I was with the “healing” process.

Thoughts: “The best way to pay for a lovely moment is to enjoy it.” (Richard Bach) or as the 1^st Psalm said, “I sought the Lord, and he answered me and delivered me from all my fears.” (Psalm 34:5)

March Jottings (FRANK)

My brother, Dick, has asked me to record my memories of our brother, Frank. He was the “first born”, the eldest of the clan, being born in 1913, on August 25th of that year. He died on March 19, 1970. Ten years after his birth, on the same day, the world saw our brother, John, come to light. Frank, being number one, was the “apple” of his father’s eye, but from what’s been reported, he managed to stir up enough trouble to sour the apple on occasion.

He entered the seminary at St. Charles in the Archdiocese of Philadelphia to become a secular priest. For the uninitiated, a “secular” priest is the original parish priest, or as some are want to say, the “real” priest, i.e., those following the footsteps of Jesus and the apostles. Not one of Jesus’ later organizers, like St. Augustine, St. Benedict, St. Francis or St. Ignatius of Loyola, who gave us Augustinians, Benedictines, Franciscans and Jesuits. However, Frank and the secular priest organization separated after one year. His scholarship may have had something to do with it, but since he later was to become a Bishop in the same church, it was not alluded to very often.

He left St. Charles and then entered the Order of the Oblates of Mary Immaculate (OMI), a missionary order, with a mission to save the poor. It was later noted at his installation celebration as a Bishop in 1958 that the road to being a Bishop was: flunk out of St. Charles and then join a remote and little known missionary order and serve somewhere halfway around the world to insure it. Be that as it may, his changing of fields was at first suspected by the patriarch to be just one more in a long line of such and he, Dad, allegedly held his breath until Frank was ordained in 1939. He expected him, according to the reports, to be coming home any day now to try something else.

Of course, not being around until 1929 I base all this on hearsay. When I was born, or shortly thereafter, is when Frank left to become a novice in the Oblates in Tewksbury, MA. I vaguely remember driving somewhere to visit him. It was probably DC, where he was ordained in the new Immaculate Conception National Shrine in 1939, where he was later to celebrate an Easter Mass on TV in 1958 as a Bishop.

Like Richard after him, being at the end of the line, I only learned of Frank’s early escapades from others. He was number “one” and I was number “thirteen”. He was born in 1913, I in 1929, when he was 16. He graduated from West Catholic High School in 1930. So it is easy to see why I had little contact with him. At age 10 I was an altar boy at his first Mass. He was away those nine years since his graduation from West Catholic. I graduated in 1947 and he returned to the USA in 1948. Even the first Mass is a vague blur, but the pictures confirm I was there. I seem to remember going to DC for the ordination, because we ate in a restaurant I think was called The State, or such. But other than seeing his picture, having his letters read to us, and then him with Richard and John on the front page of the Bulletin in 1945 when they were together in Santo Tomas in Manila, I really did not know my brother until 1948.

From his ordination in 1939 he went to the Philippines to serve as a missionary on the lower island of Cotabato. I recall hearing in his letters of his travels by horseback from one small village or town to another. I recall names like Cotabato, Davao, Kidipawan, etc. Then the Japanese struck Pearl Harbor on December 7, 1941 and next invaded the Philippines, which brought silence and fear of the worst to Mom and Dad. We later learned he was incarcerated by the Japanese and carried with many other Americans and fellow priests, in small boats from the southern end of the island of Cotabato to Manila on Luzon – a thousand mile boat trip. There he was placed in what were called “concentration camps”, “internments”, etc. He was better suited than most to survive this ordeal, due to his robust physical life the years before, on horseback in the heat, travelling around the southern island. He survived so well that upon his release he travelled with the American soldiers to help in the invasion of the lower islands as a Chaplain, or guide, while others, due to health problems, returned to the U.S.A. after their release.

This return trip with the Army enabled him to begin his building of schools in the south. He became the benefactor of the U.S. Army’s surplus – including “Quonset Huts”, buildings made of sheet metal and steel 2x4s that look like warehouses with few windows, but were mansions compared to the structures existing in some of the towns in Cotabato. He began schools and called them all “Notre Dame”, as in Notre Dame of Cotabato, Notre Dame of Kidipawan, etc. He even told a story of some of his students, on hearing the GIs singing the Notre Dame fight song inquire how they had learned “their” song? He allowed that there was another Notre Dame somewhere in Indiana.

He stayed in the country until 1948. He then had an opportunity to come home and visit for some months. He was to return via Rome and I was to go with him. So it wasn’t until I was nearly 19 and at the end of my first year in Junior College (an Oblate Prep Seminary) that I really met my brother, Frank.

I remember us waiting as Dad went to the Railroad Station to pick up Frank. We all went into the kitchen when someone reported, “They pulled into the garage”. (There was a window in the kitchen that looked into the garage). We were all around the large kitchen table as he entered with Dad and began to give hellos and handshakes or hugs to each of us. But at one point he looked across the table at Winifred, who had a man standing next to her. Winifred had married Paul Allen in 1940 in Frank’s absence. So Frank, seeing this gentleman next to Winnie, exclaimed “You must be Paul Allen!?” To which, our brother Joe responded, “Paul Allen, Hell! I’m your brother Joe!” The laughter that followed was loud. It became a treasured family memory. It demonstrated the length and breadth of the McSorley clan. Dad used to say, “The sun never sets on the McSorleys”, with apologies to the wit who originally stated “The sun never sets on the British Empire”. Even today, with Jim in California, Mary in Louisiana and the rest of us here in the East, it is still partially correct. But for years, with someone in the Philippines or South America (Roie and Eleanor) or elsewhere, it was a fact.

The days after Frank’s arrival are a blur. I was to ride with him in July or August up to New England to visit the Oblate Houses in and around Boston. I remember one stop, either at or on the way to Tewksbury. We visited late in the afternoon with a pastor or religious person and may even had had a meal. But thereafter we took off. I learned by several exclamations from my brother that he had anticipated being invited to spend the night. It hadn’t happened and we were apparently not expected at our next stop until the morning, so we drove into the night until we were near our next destination and then pulled over. We retired for the night, he in the front and I in the rear. The country, we were in was just that “country”, so there was no fear of a policeman tapping on the window during our slumber. I awoke to find the sun, up and Frank also. He was off in the undergrowth for his morning ablutions, or such.

We arrived at or about 6 a.m. at the next stop, which I believe was the Noviate at Tewksbury, in time for him to celebrate Mass and be invited to breakfast. I remember Frank commenting that the sleep wasn’t half bad, like sleeping on a moving horse, or lying in some brush on a blanket of some sort by the side of a stream or so-called road, or the earth in the prison of Santo Tomas. The cushions of the car were certainly a luxury by comparison.

I also vaguely remember having a near collision with a cow on that trip. Frank never hesitated to let the road know he was there -and on the country lanes of rural Massachusetts, it was only the Holy Spirit who saved us from not leaving the road on one of its many turns, one of which came up quickly. As we came out of the turn there was a flock of cows moseying across the road. Screech! Then scramble went the heifers in every direction. Fortune was with us, we didn’t, slaughter any beef that day.

I have very little recollection of the ride or rides after the one to New England. I next had the good fortune to be the one chosen to go back with Frank as far as Rome. I had finished one year (Sept. ’47 – June ’48) at the Oblate Preparatory School in Newburgh, NY and was expected to return in the fall, to follow in the footsteps of my brothers. All from Frank down had entered a religious order at its first level at least. John had contemplated a noviate in the Jesuits before leaving to become a Marine. Joe had gone to the Oblate Preparatory School in Buffalo, NY before leaving and returning to graduate from St. Joseph’s College in 1943A, an expedited class to get the bodies out into the service and the war. So my entrance as the seventh son was not surprising. This goal of being a Father of the Church, rather than a Father of children, was looked on benignly by the Patriarch, so much so that he thought a trip to the center of Catholicism, Rome, would seal that end. It was, of course, to be otherwise, but in 1948 it served me well and gave me adventure not often bestowed on 19 year olds in 1948.

We left from Sea Isle City. Dad, and I believe Joe and/or John drove us to New York to board, the Mauritania, a Canard liner. I remember seeing Mother and others, maybe Winnie and Marge, standing on the high porch waving “Bon Voyage”. I even think I saw a tear in the eyes of the big, tough brother, who later admitted he believed he would never see Mother alive again, which turned out to be true. She had been ill that year and, in fact, in May she received her award as the National Catholic Mother of the Year while in Misericordia Hospital. She was to die in November of 1952 after being unconscious for many months.

The drive over is not recorded in my computer, but I do remember being impressed with the size of the ship and standing by the rail, looking several stories down at Dad, and others, as the ship’s horn blasted behind us and the whole thing rumbled and shook. We were drifting away from the pier. Once again I noted a bit of “mist” in the eyes of Frank saying farewell and noting out loud to me that he felt it might be the last farewell to Dad. But that was not to be. The apple of his eye was to return and have glory and praise heaped upon his Dad as a leader of the Church. I remember years later Dad remarking about that second return, how much he matured, (or it might have been the first). I now, years later with sons, know how he felt and find it remarkably surprising – these boys are now men!

The journey across was five days: from New York to Cobh, Ireland and then by train up to Dublin. We stayed outside Dublin in a suburb at a shrine to Mary Immaculate-Oblates, I believe.

As I attempt to recall the events of 40 years ago, I was struck by some words I recently read in a novel by E. L. Doctorow, “The Waterworks”:

“I’m an old man now and I have to acknowledge

That reality slips, like the cogs

In a wheel…

Names, faces, even of those close to you

Become strange, beautifully strange, and

The commonest sight, the street you live on,

Appears to you on one sunny morning as

The monumental intention of men who

Are no longer available to explain it…

Even words have a different sound,

And things you knew you relearn with

Wonder before you realize you knew them

Well enough once to take no notice of

Them. When we’re young we can’t anticipate

That what so matter-of-factly is

There for us in life is just what we’ll

Have to struggle to hold onto as we grow

Older…”

The mind can’t recall the incidents that filled the time on the Atlantic and in Dublin. I recall the trip from Cobh to Liverpool, England, which I reported previously. It was the crossing where Frank and I slept shoulder to shoulder on the floor at the end of a passageway. I was awakened by a door that opened above us and arose to let someone come out to visit the water closet. When she or he returned and I lay down again I reported my esteemed brother’s comment “I thought you’d never get up!”

I do remember visiting several restaurants or pubs in London. There was rationing in effect. You could only spend a certain amount of money on one meal, so in order to satisfy our American appetites, we would have meals in two different places. I suppose these are not memories of my brother as much as memories of this old man whose cogs have slipped a bit.

In that vein I recall another incident in Ireland. We hired a cart and driver to tour from somewhere to Tralee. The cart was of wood, the driver was a gnarled, gnome of a man, and a donkey or ass, or a mule pulled the whole thing. The driver kept chattering all along the bouncing road. The best I could get was that those hills over there, in the direction he waved his arms, had something to do with the Virgin Mary. We finally arrived at Tralee and Frank paid off our “tour guide” driver. It was only then that he queried whether I understood anything he, the driver said. I acknowledged not much except that bit about the hills and the Virgin Mary. He admitted to about the same, which belied his rapt attention to the gentleman as we drove down. He was already showing the signs of a good politician, act as if it’s all perfectly clear and understandable and then ignore it. By the way, the reason we failed to understand our driver was his brogue, it was so thick it completely obliterated the sounds of English.

We had a similar experience on a train ride in France. We were chatting about something as we sat together on one side of the seat in a cabin. We noticed that a young man (younger than I by maybe 3 or 4 years) was watching us intently and seemingly interested in our banter. We stopped talking and he addressed us in a very heavy British accent, asking to excuse him from staring. He wondered where we were from, since he couldn’t quite understand our language. He, we noticed a few minutes later, chatted in French to another passenger. He was on holiday from school and was either going back or coming from it. Frank had learned Visayan dialect and improved his Spanish while the guest of the Emperor of Japan. He often used Latin to converse with priests or clergy. But neither he, nor I, ever felt our Philadelphia-ese was that foreign from the King’s English.

(To be continued… )

 

The last report of my memories of Frank had some errors. One very egregious one, noted by Family Historian, Win, was the date of Frank’s death. It was November 19, 1970, not March as reported. March was the month that Dad died, March 14, 1972. The other error was that Frank returned in 1947. He was here for Mom and Dad’s 35^th wedding anniversary in November 1947 as reported by the First Lady of the McSorleys. What is correct is that it wasn’t until late in the summer of ’48 that Frank and I headed for Europe. The ride to New England was earlier the same summer.

While recalling the events of ’48 I went to some boxes in which I found pictures I took on the trip to Ireland, England and Portugal. The Ireland pictures included several of the cart. They confirmed the “gnarled guide” and that the trip occurred. The London photos reminded me of the trip to Westminster Cathedral and the guided tour, which caused Frank to comment, “They omitted who started the cathedral as a church, i.e., Rome.” We watched the performance of an orchestra in its court, saw the tombs of poets and literati, and then moved on to Big Ben. It was not as impressive as the tower and clock in Munich where human size warriors marched around the top of the tower around the clock. The pictures also reflected the damage done during the London Blitz, blocks on blocks of rubble and partial structures glaring out through the foggy dew.

In Ireland we also had a picture of the Hurling Match, the national finals between Dublin and Wicklow. Wicklow is where I believe the Cosgroves came from, mother’s family. We had what we would call “50 yard” seats directly behind Eammon DaValera, long-time Prime Minster of the Republic. We shook hands with him during one of the breaks. I don’t remember who won, but I’ll never forget the game being started by all standing and singing “Faith of Our Fathers”, which by the way, is a lot easier than the “Star Spangled Banner”.

I must digress from my reminiscing to report that I, Paul, Jr. and Bill celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with a ten mile run on March 11^th. I was happy to break 90 minutes and Paul did so by 2 minutes. Bill was an amazing 66 minutes. All had a great time and promise to do it again soon.

On today’ s date, March 14th, my Dad died in 1972. He was laid out in St. Francis de Sales Church on the 17th, wearing a green tie. This was a thing to note, since from 1952 until his death 20 years later, he wore a black tie in memory of Mom’s death. So the green tie was a real exception. I also learned that Winnie had borrowed the tie, from whom I can’t remember, but forgot to return it!

London had some other memories that I can’t get clear. But I remember when it came time to eat; we would go to two places unless we were guests of someone. It had to do with rationing. It was 1948 and the city and empire were attempting to get back into a peacetime economy, but rationing was still a fact. It worked somehow with a limit on the amount you could spend in one establishment. So, in order to get a full meal, we went to two establishments. Strange, but that’s what I remember.

We also met the Beefeater at the Tower of London. One of the Oblate’s fathers was a Beefeater, a guard at the Tower. We ate in their pub and visited the cells of Bishop Fisher and Thomas More. The Beefeater uniform of knee britches, white socks, shoulder pads with ornamental epaulets, bright red uniforms and hats like wedding cakes were something right out of Alice in Wonderland, or the Jack of Diamonds playing card. It was just hard to believe they were “real” people.

Today most Americans only know or recognize a “Beefeater” on the bottle of gin of the same name. I wondered where the name came from. It, of course, means first, someone who eats beef, but at one time the term was applied to the yeomen of the King’s guards who attended him at state banquets and other ceremonial occasions. The English ate a lot of beef; at least I’m sure Henry VIII did, according to American advertisers. Secondly, the term “Beefeaters” was a slang expression of an “Englishman”. How it happened that the Beefeater guards ended up in the Tower as guards, I don’t really know. Maybe they got caught noshing on the King’s beef and got canned. In any event, meeting a costumed character from Alice in Wonderland in person at nineteen years of age, I was properly impressed. We even shot darts in their pub and ate some of their beef.

We flew from London to Lisbon, Portugal, I think. We road up into the mountains in a hired car with a driver who would have scared a NY taxi driver – maybe he became one later. His approach was similar to Frank’s only ten times more aggressive on roads that were built for ox carts. The miracle we were going to visit at Fatima was nothing compared to the miracle of our getting there alive.

We remember Fatima as quiet compared to Lourdes, which we visited later. There was no enormous cathedral or building, but a church of fair size and a village. We even had our pictures taken with the girls’ mother (Jacinta Marie Francisco) in front of her hut. The visionaries were in a convent or at least two of them were, as I remember. I think one might have been deceased in 1948.

Frank was able to arrange for this picture taking through a Spanish priest or counselor to the mother from some companion he had met in his internment (his connections were already worldwide). His speaking Spanish helped also, but not a great deal with the Portuguese.

We left Lisbon by train and rode for some 24 to 28 hours up through Spain, through the Pyrenees, then along the Mediterranean (once thought to be the middle of the earth – Meddi-terra) on the fabled Riviera to Genoa, Italy. We were allowed get off the train in Spain, but couldn’t stay unless we agreed to exchange $400 into pesos, which we had to leave in the country when we left, or purchase merchandise for that amount. Our tour director, Frank, thought it a poor investment and my banker, Dad, made my choices limited to Frank’s advice. (When I arrived in New York alone on the Mauritania some days later, I had a “nickel”, 5 cents. Enough to call home if no one was there to pick me up. No such thing as a credit card existed for us, or even others as far as I know in 1948).

I remember arriving in Genoa around daybreak and we left the train to have Frank celebrate Mass. He had a church already selected and made the arrangements on the spot with a curate. The whole conversation was in Latin. I was able to follow it so it was just above “Latin I”.

It occurred to me that I started these memories to tell of my brother, Frank. It now it seems he’s gotten lost in the itinerary, though I must note that it was he who planned and selected the places and people we visited. So in reporting that I’m reporting something of Frank’s interest.

On the ride up and across the Riviera, I stepped out as the train stopped in Monaco. I can’t recall if Princess Grace was in the palace by then or not, but I wanted to be able to honestly say, “Oh yes, I’ve been to Monaco!” or such at some future soiree.

On the train Frank and I were the only ones in a cabin (?) and we noticed a number of young people standing in the corridor. They seemed to be conversing in French, at least to this student of French (2 years at Junior College). So I attempted to communicate a little. Parle vous? All to no avail. Frank had a bit of knowledge of the language and with his Spanish surmised they were from the Pyrenees area and spoke a mixture of Spanish and French, which neither of us could understand. However, we communicated enough to invite them to come and sit in our booth (cabin?). They did, and not more than five minutes later the conductor was on them scolding them in some language, which they understood, and they had to leave, despite our pleas in Spanish, English and Americanese. The rules are the rules, they pay for steerage, and they don’t get seats. The universal law of travel.

Recently we discovered (or more correctly June did), in the back of a cabinet some tapes. Among them was one dated April 6, 1971 from Father Pat in Germany. It was one sent in response to our tape sometime before. It was a thing for a while; send letters or messages to loved ones by tape. It was a great tool for Patrick who enjoyed conversation (usually by the sea with a glass of Scotch) more than writing. It certainly brought back memories to hear his voice again.

He was a very warm, congenial and caring brother and friend. I never heard him complain. He had his many setbacks, as the best of us, yet they are hard to recall, since he kept most to himself. I do know his studies were extended a year, delaying his ordination. For what reason I never knew, nor did he ever expound on the injustice (or right) of such a delay. He acted like the proverbial duck; it was water off his back.

He enjoyed an occasional mystery or western novel, but could, as he does on the tape, quote GK Chesterton, renowned English essayist and thinker. He unabashedly loved the ocean and its eternal waves. He was a more than adequate swimmer and seemed to communicate with the sea. He seemed able, more than other bachelors I know, to communicate and attract children. I still can see a picture taken in Florida by some of his fans, floating on his back in a pool beside a floating table that had a book and a place for a glass, smiling at the photographer, while toasting him or her with a glass in hand.

His comment on the tape from Chesterton was part of his complimenting, Sue, Tom, Andy, Paul, Bill and Mary (Dan also later) for their messages, entertainment, songs, piano playing and articulation. He believed that if you had any talent, particularly musical, you should show it, even if it fails to be up to your high standards. It is then he refers to GK who says he didn’t agreewith the adage “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing well!” He says, “If it’s worth doing, it’s worth doing poorly, if only because it can give joy to some others or as June pointed out today, Nike advertisers use the phrase “Just Do It.”

I recall talking to Pat one time about the fear of dying. He gave me what I will always remember as a great answer. He said it is like opening a door and entering a new room. Just like we came in, we can’t remember what was behind that door we just came through, and it hasn’t been so bad in this room, so let’s look forward to the next one. A good analogy even if it limps a little

These gems from Pat came often. He enjoyed a humorous story and could relate one as well. Whenever I think of Pat he is always smiling, not a grin or a smirk, but a smile that seems to say, “See, God loves you! “. I hope he is still smiling in that new room, since he gave so much happiness in this one.

Before resuming my recollections of the trip of ’48, I have to report another. After listening to Father Pat, I had another happy memory of him as I went about my daily routine. I found myself telling someone to “Enjoy”, one of Father Pat’s constant admonitions. It was good advice then and still is.

Another event that interrupts my return to Rome is the announcement by my favorite politician, Senator Arlen Specter that he is running for the Republican nomination for President. It jars the mind! I suppose I could take satisfaction in being able to state that I once knew a Presidential candidate, but it’s a grim satisfaction.

My knowledge of the character of the candidate behooves me not to crow too loudly since I wouldn’t want too many people I admire and love to learn I was once allegedly a “friend” of Arlen’s. It was in the deep dark past when he was a Democrat and District Attorney, but I’m sure by now he’s even forgotten that. Arlen would’ve run on the “Know Nothing Party” if they had an opening, and it would have been in title a lot closer to how I remember him. His announcement is a sad and sorrowful commentary on the caliber of men who today seek the office once held by people like Tom Jefferson, Abe Lincoln, FDR, Harry Truman, and even, as we now see, Jimmy Carter. Politics makes strange bedfellows and “alleged friends”. I hope he wins the nomination because I think the Democrats could beat him with Fred Flintstone on the ticket!

The ride down from Genoa to the Eternal City was uncomfortable, because my stomach and the food disagreed, so that on arrival I had to recuperate. It meant missing a trip to meet Judge Ed Bradley’s maternal grandmother. My dad and the

Judge’s dad were friends. Ed’s dad was at one time a Congressman. He had in his district a goodly number of Italian immigrants. He surprised them by speaking in their lingo. He had picked up the language while in Italy, I think during WWI, and apparently met and wooed Mrs. Bradley. Following WWII his in-laws were on tough times in the former Axis country, so Ed’s father had sent via Frank some American dollars. All of which I recall and still regret not visiting them somewhere beyond the seven hills that Frank described as scenic and palatial.

I did manage to visit what I recall as LaRoma, or a classy Italian restaurant. I also remember sitting in the dark in the back of a classroom or lecture hall and listening to Frank give a pep talk to some seminarians. As he was delivering it an older gentleman, a seminarian or priest, I never figured out which, came in also at the rear of the room, but did not see me. He was obviously listening and thoroughly enjoying Frank’s remarks, but he was· shocking me with his arm gestures, emotionally given with a “Bravo!” or such. Each time he did he would throw the left arm in the crook of the right arm, which he swung up in the air, while enunciating an expletive! It was an obscene gesture in south Philly, so I was, as you can imagine, shocked to see a “man of the cloth” using such obscenities. Later I was to learn that the gesture in Rome was one of “hooray”, “Way to go”, etc., etc., not as it later degenerated in South Philadelphia. I never see that gesture here without thinking of those moments in Rome when I first saw it used by a priest or seminarian in response to my brother’s exhortations of others.

Ah! Yes Roma! Arrivederci Roma! All I can think of now is what a wag allegedly once said about the city “It’s a great place to visit, except it’s full of Italians”. She must have been the same one who, when it was suggested she visit Ireland said “Oh! Never, it’s cold, damp and full of Catholics”. To which our astute agent responded, “Well, How about hell? It’s hot, dry and full of Protestants!”

We left Rome one day to travel to Castle Gondolfo, the Pope’s Camp David. We were to have a private audience. It consisted of 9 or 10 of us standing in a carpeted long hallway, some 40 or 50 feet from another group up and down the hall on both sides of us. The Pope was Pius XII, a.k.a. Pacelli. I was the last in our row from the direction the Pope was coming. He started to my right, some 8 or 9 people away, including Frank and proceeded to chat with each as they got up from their kisses to take his hand. He came to me, I froze, failing to fall on my knees as protocol would require, and kiss his ring or whatever. I just stuck out my hand as if to say “Shake Buddy!”, which he did with a smile and wished me “gratia”, “pacem” and God be with you. I think I told him my name, and that I was from Philly, but by that time I’m sure he surmised I was another one of those ignorant klutzy Americans.

Frank enjoyed my discomfort but added that it was typical American behavior before Kings and Popes, democracy in the subconscious or such!

I remember visiting a church with a museum like basement where there was a replica or mummy of St. Paul. He was not 5 foot tall, maybe 4’8″. He matched his taken name of “Paulus”, small. I remember the Sistine Chapel and St. Peter’s Square, and the David of Michelangelo. The blur of people and places continue to interfere with my ability to recall details.

I can’t recall the train ride, but I next remember visiting Lourdes, the shrine of Bernadette. I think I remember the candlelight procession or maybe it’s just that I remember the movie, “The Song of Bernadette”. I know I was struck by how commercial the whole enterprise was after the poverty of Fatima.

Frank accompanied me down to Calais and I boarded the Mauritania once again to head for New York. The seasoned sailor got seasick on the way back, and as I noted above arrived in New York Harbor with just a nickel to call for help. None was needed in that Dad and some others were there to greet me.

Today, Sunday, January 22, 1995, we celebrate.  We celebrate the birth of a boy, a “grand”son, to Walt & Tracy on January 18^th, some 15 days beyond his reported entrance.  We celebrate a year to the day (the 18^th) that I entered the same hospital, Holy Redeemer, to discover a squiggly in the left ventricle artery. We celebrate three years since I became committed to a non-alcoholic existence, but the best of the best is the coming of ERIC BRIAN BERGER, also known as EBB! A boy of great promise, if he can survive the exuberant affection of his three-year-older brother, Paulie. We’re sure, with the guidance and overseeing of Sean and David (now 11!), he’ll make it. The miracle of birth stirs us all and around the time he was pending in the womb, I heard a hymn or song that touched me. It was children singing “How God has knitted me together in my mother’s womb” and gave me “wonderful me”. When you look at a newborn in his mother’s arms, it is with “full of wonder”. God is in his heaven and all is right with the world! It certainly was with a great deal more pleasure that I visited Holy Redeemer on 1/18/95, as compared to my stop on 1/18/94. June, Grandmom, feels exactly the same way!

Another subject broached at our New Year’s Day dinner party was an article on the opinion page of the Evening Bulletin circa 1972. Bill King remembered that I was a “bear for paperwork”. The expression came from the article written about me by columnist, Adrian Lee. It appeared with a picture of my face as it was in 1966-campaign material. Pudgy Paul. Under it read “…a bear for paperwork”. In fact, that part of the article was what offended me more than all the sly inferences in the written part.

I had, at that time in my life, lost some 40 pounds due to running and eating less. My face had shrunken, so much so that I was misidentified in one of my favorite haunts as a brother of Paul McSorley – no kidding! So my ego was boosted by the article but then quickly deflated by the picture – sic transit gloria mundi!

The “bear for paperwork” allegation had to do with my processing questionnaires of prospective jurymen while serving at the same time as court appointed defense counsel in homicide cases. I’ve re-read the article. It must have appeared in 1973 or late 1972. The appointments as counsel were made when I was without employment between 1/1/72 and 6/30/72. The trials however, occurred after the appointment. The article reported that, “…he is a diligent and capable practitioner, his clients well represented.” He, the author then goes on to infer that my job as Master (later we became “Assistant Commissioners”) gave me access to jury records – the questionnaires – that gave me an advantage over the A.D.A. “…is he in a position to pick and choose with greater insight than the DA? …” He answers the question himself “…there’s no question; the defense would have the advantage.” What the author, Mr. Lee, failed to do is ask me that question. In fact he, in his interview, never advised me that he intended to write an article referring to my practice as an attorney. He merely asked about my working habits and what I did at the Jury Commission.

He never examined the “Questionnaire” or he could never have called it “quite detailed”. The information is so basic that his description is a travesty. Further, he did not ask me nor the D.A. if they had access to this information, because they did, as well as I did. It was substantially what was noted on the list of jurors, namely, name, address and occupation. The additional information was the date of birth, education (i.e., could they write or write), physical capacity to serve, and if there was any reason he or she couldn’t serve. It, the article, was a good example of “yellow”journalism – accent what makes for sensation and ignore the facts! And never even try to obtain them!

But, there were some flattering comments, so we’ll take the bad with the good – including that awful obese Paul picture at the top of the column. So much for the “bear for paperwork”.

The article brought back other memories. The actual trial of criminal cases in the presence of a jury. The whole world now watching the jury system being tried by the OJ Simpson case. I have difficulty remembering that I really addressed 12 people on behalf of clients. I do remember one that had been charged with first degree murder of one person and aggravated A&B of another in the course of a gang killing. We managed to have the A&B charge against him dismissed and a jury returned a not guilty of first degree murder, but guilty of conspiracy to murder. I felt quite pleased with the result, but the client inquired if he had to go to jail. I advised him he could get up to 10 years – he was disappointed and I was flabbergasted. It, as I recall, was my last murder trial. My bosses, Nick Kozay and Paul Tranchitella, were both seeking the bench, and were adamant about my appearing before any other juries. They even acted as if they had previously advised me against doing so, which was not true. But now that they had to be ”chaste as Caesar’s wife” they claimed they had. Both ultimately made the bench. Paul has since joined the heavenly court and Nick is still with us and can be found in Divorce Motion Court.

There was another time I was the subject – indirectly – of an article in the local paper, this time, the Inquirer.

I had been the intermediary in a private adoption something I had done many times before. It was around 1983 when I was approached by an expectant mother to place her expected child. I should have been forewarned considering the source of the recommendation, i.e., the person who suggested me as the attorney/intermediary was not one with the best of reputations. This may be more like “Monday morning quarterbacking”, since at the time my anxiety to place a child with one of the many desperate couples I had on my list blinded me to any chance that I would become a victim of a very mixed-up woman.

Her name was Cadwallader – a name that recalls Main Line and early American Philadelphia history. But as of today I am not even sure that it was not something she picked up – though I do recall talking to her father in the course of the matter. He was a Mr. Cadwallader living in Delaware, just over the Pennsylvania line.

The usual manner in which those cases were handled was, after an interview, the mother executed a “Moral Commitment” to place the child through me. It was understood that the adopting parties – who remained unknown – would pay for the mother’s prenatal and postnatal care. We would even consider paying other legitimate expenses, but nothing more. It was explicit in the Commitment – or contract – as it was interpreted by the Court in cases where the party later reneged after receiving the care and then did not give up the child.

Some months later the mother entered Abington Hospital and delivered a little girl. We arranged to pay and paid the bill for the care. The mother left the hospital without the child. We, after the hospital pediatrician approved the health of the child, met with the adopting parents and delivered the child to them. We then contacted the birth mother who was with her father, to have her execute the Consent. A Consent to adoption under Pa. law cannot be executed until 72 hours have elapsed after the birth. The mother failed to respond. We contacted the putative father and he executed a Consent. He had at that point no contact with the mother. I advised the adopting parents of the developments and they were further advised to hire counsel. The mother continued to refuse to execute a Consent and now denied that the person she named as the father was in fact the father. He continued to accept the proposition and was surprised at her denial. The bizarre behavior continued and the mother began an action in Habeas Corpus – directed to me – and I joined through counsel the adopting parties.

The defenses were: the commitment, the abandonment of the child, the father’s consent and later, after investigation disclosed other facts – the woman was incapable of parenting.  This last defense was a new theory. It had not reached our Supreme Court, but did after our matter was decided, affirming it was a valid theory or reason in certain circumstances. We never had an opportunity to develop it because the Judge decided since the adoption statute said (or did at that time) a natural parent can revoke a Consent anytime up to six months, she therefore had revoked any consent or consensual acts, and the child had to be returned to her.

But before the Judge reached that decision, the investigation into the woman’s background revealed she had been hospitalized at least twice for an overdose of drugs – allegedly attempted suicides. She had also apparently had another child, a boy, who was removed or taken from her because of abuse or whatever. We were thwarted in obtaining information on the child’s whereabouts and history due to the Judge’s predilection to go by the strict reading of the Adoption Law.

Somewhere in the time between her refusal to execute a Consent and the Judge’s decision, there appeared on the front page of the “Inquirer’s” Metro Section a picture of Ms. Cadwallader beside an empty crib apparently in a nursery like room –under which was a caption, something like “He refuses to give me my child”. The “he” in the article noted was attorney P.L. McSorley.

The article was full of half-truths and none of what I had told the reporter who interviewed me was reported. For example: the father had consented, the mother had committed in writing, and had accepted her care being paid for, the mother had left the hospital without the child, and the mother refused to divulge information about a prior child – its whereabouts, etc., etc. It merely moaned on about this monster lawyer stealing her child – inferentially, for profit.

Another weird twist to this story was the mother picketed my office at 431 Rhawn Street, walking up and down with signs stating I was “unfair”, etc. She tried to have 60 Minutes cover the story, or so I was advised. A nice twist to the picketing was when Joe Golden heard she was there at the office (I vacated it for a while that day) and thought he would go up and interview her. He took his camera and did so. Maybe that’s where I learned she was attempting to get 60 Minutes involved?

The Court upheld her right to take back the child. The parties could not afford to appeal and so it then seemed the end of a strange saga. But no – one day before two years elapsed from the day I took the child, Ms. Cadwallader served me with a Summons. I have conveniently forgotten the attorney’s name, but it never ceased to gall me that he did not have the professional courtesy, or guts to call and inquire from me my side of the incident. No “sue first and ask questions at depositions” –regardless of the basis for the action! It’s the American (lawyer) way!

We, that is my attorney, Frank Allen, and I served the Summoners with a demand that they file a Complaint within 20 days or have the matter dismissed. They filed a 30-page complaint of absolute fantasy -alleging that I had prevented her from bonding with the child, causing her psychological damage, etc., etc. to the tune of $200,000!

Some months later Frank deposed her. I did not attend for fear I might assault her attorney and then her. After several hours, Frank learned she was now driving a truck over the road, being away for days at a time, had trouble remembering who her babysitter was, had never been tested by a psychologist, a psychiatrist, etc. regarding her “bonding” loss, etc., etc. She was without a case and apparently she knew it, since when the case was listed for trial her lawyer withdrew. He could not locate his client! Thus ended the saga – finally. But it was another example along the way of the press and the truth – how divergent they are, so often. It makes you feel sorry for Will Rogers, who said all he ever knew he read in the newspapers – could not have been much.

The real tragedy in matters like this is the child. This one disappeared into wherever, as apparently the previous one did. The courts today at least tend more to look into the best interest of the child in most instances – when there is no fraud involved in the placement that has gone forward for some time. Included in the best interest is also consideration of the parenting ability of the natural mother who has given up the child.

A little twist to this story, as Judy pointed out, was that shortly after the child was returned to her mother we were able to place another child with the adoptive couple.

Before closing, I want to leave with you two of the many get-well thoughts I received a year ago. I received this from Sean Hopkins, written in his own hand:

“Dear Pop-Pop:

I know I can’t go in your room so I’m writing this card to tell you how much I hope your operation is a success and to tell you that too many people including me love you and would hate to see you go away forever. Get well soon.

Love, Sean”

And this one from David:

“Dear Pop-Pop:

I hope you get better. Well that’s the reason for writing this letter I hope you get better for goodness sake so you can play the piano Book of Fakes (Ha Ha get it?).

P.S. I’ll Be the First one to visit you.

Love, Dave”

(For those not familiar with “Book of Fakes”, it is really a “Fake Book” of music used by Pop-Pop to play tunes!).

When you receive an expression of love as wonderful as that from your loved ones, it makes all life’s disappointments seem trivial and small.

The New Year is here.  It’s 1995 and it’s great to be alive.  I’ve been thinking of what I should write for the New Year’s Jottings.  I went back to the prior years and learned I only referred to the new year in 1994—in 1993 I seemed to have jumped in in March.  The theme of ’94 was and still is: Thank God for giving me so much in the past year and the optimism to face the new one with minimum apprehension.  The month of January in ’94 was my “operation” month and fortunately only good memories remain—the bad are buried hopefully never to rise again.

A modest poll of the Jottings recipients, sometime readers, indicate they would like more reminiscing and less current events.  We will try to satisfy both readers and recipients in the ’95 editions.

By way of a trip down memory lane, I recall an incident at the end of my campaign in 1966 for State Legislature.  A friend of mine, Joe Gerngross, was the President of the St. Joe’s Father’s Club.  St. Joseph’s was a parish in Cheltenham, Montgomery County, and incidentally, not in the District I was seeking to represent.  But, as I said, he was a friend, and a friend in need.  He needed a speaker for his meeting night in November and it happened to be the night before the election.  “Would I be that speaker?” asked Joe.

Well, since there was little I, or anyone else could really accomplish on the last night, I agreed.  He then advised that there would also be another speaker, a Republican, to give his party’s view.  We were going to talk about the respective platforms of the gubernatorial candidates.  The Republicans were represented by the incumbent, Shaeffer, and our candidate was Milton Shapp.  The gentleman Joe asked to speak for the Republicans was James Cavanaugh, today a Judge on the Superior Court of Pennsylvania.  I knew Jim as a member of the brood of Cavanaughs who used to summer in Sea Isle City.  I also knew he was a good plaintiff’s lawyer and had run for political office in the Northeast in several prior elections.  He was not a candidate in this one.

The Father’s Club of St. Joseph’s had about 50 members present on that historic evening.  Joe was the Master of Ceremonies.  He introduced us both and then gave me the opportunity to speak first.  I offered condolences of a tongue in cheek nature in that it was regrettable that they could not vote for me, since all of them lived outside of the district.  I did note that the speakers were on an even keel in that they couldn’t vote for Jim either.  Then I expanded on the virtues of our candidate and his program for progress.  But as I now recall some nearly 30 years later, I can’t for the life of me think of one outstanding proposal Miltie had, but I’m sure there were many in 1966.  I spoke for about 10 to 15 minutes and then rested, assured all would vote for Shapp the following day.  It was then Mr. Cavanaugh’s turn.

He began rather formally with a nod to the Chairman and his friends, and then the bomb was dropped!  He said “I have been waiting for this opportunity, throughout this campaign of Mr. McSorley’s, to expose a secret—not that Tom Gola needs it to win by—but that secret is this!”

“Mr. McSorley, as a young man, sneaked into Braca’s Pier Theater in Sea Isle City.  He did so by going hand over hand on the sewer pipe under the theater to a hole in the bathroom floor.  By the way, the pipe went out over the ocean water.  He did this on several occasions and I can prove it, since I did it with him!”

The room exploded!  I was at first a bit puzzled and then, as he disclosed his startling revelation, I broke into laughter.  I later, of course, properly acknowledged that I had sinned and asked to be forgiven.

I had forgotten those daring episodes of getting into Braca’s or that Jim had ever been a party to them.  But then I remembered and recalled we often did it several times in one week, even if we had seen the show, just for the sport of it—not just trying to avoid the probable 10- or 15-cent admission charge.

Over the years after the “expose” whenever Jim and I met we would laugh about that evening and recall the days of summer and Sea Isle by the Sea.

I had many happy days in the land of tomatoes and crabs.  The bushel baskets of both were a Friday regular and sometimes we even provided the crabs.  We would go out in the flat bottom rowboat into the coves and marshes of our inland waterways and lay traps.  We would also use lines with fish tied to them (croakers I think) over the side of the boat, slowly lifting the line when we got a nibble and then netting the nibbling crustacean.  This was done from early morning until lunch time, but sometimes we even took lunch.  I’ll never forget those warm tomato sandwiches.  They were made before we left and the sun had usually made them very tepid.  We never had any coolers, so the juice or soda matched the temperature of the tomatoes.  An early example of Paul’s ability to eat almost anything when he was hungry—called appetite.

Later, Sea Isle was visited to run the beach run and in 1976 it began on the boardwalk (concrete walk now) in front of the old homestead at 11-45^th Street.

On New Year’s Day we had Dan, Marge, Jerry, Betty, and Bill and Bunny King as dinner guests.  I recalled with Bill joining in the runs at Sea Isle, but particularly the one I chronicled here before of Bill getting 10^th place runner was assaulted by a group of passing junkies.  The jury is still out on whether Bill had anything to do with their actions.  His reputation for competitiveness belied his denials.  I also reminded him at the dinner of his record of runs in—which appeared one clipping completely edged by the author in “black” like a memorial card for the dead.  It was the one race in 20 plus years in which I beat him!  Now there’s competitiveness.

Reminder for the New Year—someone once said, “Husbands are like fires, they go out if left unattended!” (Applies equally to “wives”).

November 1, 1994:

It’s November 1^st and it feels like April 1^st. There is a mist covering the earth. The temperature at 6am is near 60 and the wind is barely perceptible as I walk in the fog to pur­chase the milk and morning blurb. I hear bells – church bells not in my head but off in the distance and wonder why? Then it occurs to me that today is All Saints Day. The day dedicated by the Catholic Church to the grunts (the regular guys) those “who also serve”. We, and I include myself, are the unknown, un­cannonized masses who get our 15 minutes of hierarchical recog­nition on this date. It is a happy feeling to know that there’s a place for us on the Church calendar. Now, if there were just a place for us in the Church, it would even be a plus. But when I think about it, I’m not as sure as I once was that it would be so.

I read with interest the arrest of the four American nuns picketing the Vatican. They were objecting to the second-class citizenship the bosses have bestowed, in all their largesse, upon them. It reminded me of a sentence I read sometime ago by Daniel Maguire, an American Catholic Theologian (9/11/94): “Quite simply and quite sadly, the Vatican has squandered its moral authority on issues where it has no privileged expertise”.

The issues that Father Maguire was referring to were women in the Church and abortion.

I also read in the same article about the arrest that the Eastern and Third world prelates are blaming the advocacy of women’s rights on American “imperial culture” whatever that is. It apparently is the excuse also used by the hierarchy of the Muslim church to subjugate their women. But at least this suggested explanation or reason is better than the travesty of sense that is presented when the argument is “Jesus only selected men as his ministers”. It was noted by a good sister in favor of an open church that Jesus’ men were also married, were Jewish, and spoke Aramaic, all of which are as relevant to the issue as that they were men. But why am I rambling on like this? You all agree with me or at least I believe you do, and that really is what matters, no?

We are counting down to the nuptials of the century (upgraded since last report). We will end here to prepare for the occasion – one, by running a 10K on the 6^th from the Aquarium (A) to the Zoo (Z), from A to Z, over the Ben Franklin Bridge from Camden; and, two, by preparing ourselves for the ordeal of celebrating the joyous occasion in our nation’s Capital, some­thing that doesn’t often happen there.

A thought for a farewell: ‘‘if your ship doesn’t come in, swim out to it!” (Jonathan Winters).

P.S. My editor, June, wishes you to be advised that she is walking a mile on the 6^th at the Zoo at the same time we are running.

Billy Meehan died. He was always “Billy”, even at 69. He was the leader of the Republican Party in Philadelphia from the time his father died, just as suddenly, at an affair honoring him while he was speaking his thanks. He was Austin Meehan, but known by all as the “Sheriff”. I remember my dad speaking fondly of the Sheriff, the way and in the manner I could now speak about Billy. He and I crossed paths over the years, even as recently as a Philly Pops concert. He was a witty fellow and the plaudits he receives now were all well earned.

I remember two incidents particularly that epitomize Billy in my life. One, several years ago, while I was an active Democratic candidate and worker, I learned of a widow who needed a job desperately to pay off debts, save her home, and feed her children. She had qualified as an employee at the IRS, but never seemed to be called. She asked my help. The IRS was then a Republican stronghold, or it was so classified. We had no Demo­cratic Senator with the power of Hugh Scott; if we had one at all at the time this occurred. I called Billy. No promises. The woman got her job.

The other was a witticism reported to me while attending an affair to honor the Honorable John Byrnes, then Democratic party Treasurer, Turnpike Commissioner and my ward leader. Billy was invited to say a few words, the only Republican in the place. After being introduced, Billy said, “Thank you, but you know I feel like a Protestant at a Catholic Mass!”

He was a man of his word, a politician to be proud of even if he supported on some occasions, what we believed to be some undeserving causes and candidates. He will be difficult to replace. His epitaph could well read, “God works wonders now and then; here lies an honest Politician”*.

He was very much a father and grandfather. There were nine children and eighteen grandchildren. Two of his sons are lawyers, one recently became. a Municipal Judge.

*With apologies to Poor Richard’s Almanac 1752

Just finished reading Thomas Jefferson’s biography. Enjoyed it immensely. I thought about why? He agreed with me. Yes. His life was consciously used to help others and him­self – in educating himself in any and all things. He was for­tunate not to have the burdensome need to make money to survive. In fact, he was in debt as he ended his life so that he sold Monticello, the farm, etc. through a lottery that placed the Estate in his family only for two years after his death. A Family Association owns it even now. His constant curiosity drove him to try to learn all he could. Maybe as I sense my own mortality it matches my spirit to the wish – the wish that I had learned more – had grown to appreciate science, for example, as much as I enjoy and appreciate literature. He wrote some 28,000 letters. He was an idealist and yet pragmatic in politics. He appeared cold in his relations to friends and family, in that he expressed little or no grief publicly when one of them died, including his wife and 5 children. Yet he wrote a verse to be opened only after his death for Patsy, his daughter, full of love and longing.

Who was Thomas Jefferson? Or better, what was he? A philosophical, intellectually political activist, yes, but also a scientist with interest in botany, acrimony, engineering, medicine and also a linguist. He spoke Latin, Greek, Italian, French and studied others, like German, Spanish, etc., etc. All these things epitomize Thomas Jefferson. He, incidentally, was the writer and framer of the Declaration of Independence, our first Secretary of State, Ambassador to France, founder of the Democratic Republican party, two-term President of the United States, author of the Northwest Ordinance and reviser of the laws of Virginia, the most sweeping reform of law in American history, Governor of the new State of Virginia during the Revolution, Father, poetry writer, doting grandfather, and yes, a lawyer. These are and were the “things” that made Thomas Jefferson certainly a “man for all Seasons”.

He was also a pessimist by nature who had a dark view of men and nations, sure that both were actuated by greed and ambition and never to be expected to act from generosity or benevolence. Jefferson deeply believed in “but one code of morality for men, whether acting singly or collectively…The best interest of nations, like men, was to follow the dictates of the conscience. I think, with others, that nations are to be governed according to their own interest, but I am convinced that it is their interest, in the long run, to be grateful, faithful to their engagements, even in the worst of circumstances, and honorable and generous always.” TJ to ML 4/2/1790 PTJ 16:293 PTJ Papers of TJ

Admiration begets approval, or is it the other way around? I admired what he did, was and attempted because they are all the things I would like to have done, attempted and seen accomplished.

Write cogently on philosophic and political issues; have read and enjoyed what are considered classics; travelled with purpose to see and learn all he could to help his country or his estate or his own curiosity.

But enough of these ramblings! Now to the trivia as it is sometimes called by those who are not letter writers.

We are pleased to report that Dan has a new record for a 5K run. He did it in just over 18 minutes. We already noted that Bill broke 5 minutes for the mile in July. Like father, like son – getting better with age, or like good wine it just improves with age.

November 12, 1994: Mary’s Wedding – Special Edition

I’m an “F.O.B.” -“Father of the Bride”. Leaving home on the Marine Corps’ 219^th birthday on November 10, 1994 to drive to our Nation’s Capital to give away my girl, Mary. The weather is clear and even cool for the first time in November. We, June and I, decide to have our lunch en route, south on 95. Usually the destination as we go south is Myrtle Beach or St. Petersburg, Florida, so we know the service areas well. Our favorite is “Big Boys”, usually in Maryland, but on this ride commencing around 12:30 p.m., hunger pulls us over in Delaware.

We arrive at about 4 p.m. to be met by the bride to be. The hotel is part of a large conference center in Georgetown University and Hospital complex. But the urgent mission upon our arrival is to drive to “Olde Town” in Alexandria, Virginia to obtain the gown for the bride and the tux for the F.O.B. So off we go through the galleys of N.W. DC and into the five o’clock traffic of DC and neighboring Virginia. The gown is in good order but for the veil. It gives Mary a start -since all of this was arranged months ago. But with a short wait and Dad’s fitting completed, we are heading back to the Conference Center.

We rested and then dined in the “Hoya” Lounge. This reminded me of the story of the newly ordained priest riding home on his first visit alone (could have been Dick or Pat) being approached sheepishly by a young man with a problem. The young priest is pleased to be of service, but a bit nervous on this his first encounter. The young man inquires if the priest is a Jesuit, to which our father responds “Yes!” “Well!” says our young man cautiously, “can you tell me what a Hoya is?” Our new Jesuit was relieved and surprised, but due to his excellent education, up to the task.

As I recall, Hoya is a Greek cheer and Georgetown University, being of classical beginnings, even cheered its athletes in Greek, so they became known to their opponents as “Hoyas”. So it is now that we have the Hoya Grill where dinner was had on our first evening of the journey of an F.O.B.

After dinner June and I toured the Guest House and found a large bookstore, another restaurant, a large student lounge and fast food place called “Fast Break”. The walls of this place were adorned with a collage of pictures, boys, girls, games in progress, and then lo and behold -there is one of Father Dick standing on the steps of a Gothic stone building, in his sandals and western string tie, holding a sign which says “Should we teach Life or Love, Death or Hate?”

He appears a few years younger in the picture but just the same look and demeanor – an “American Gandhi”.

We breakfasted the next morning in the cafeteria. Then we were off for a survey of our new quarters – the campus of Georgetown University. We first walked through the streets surrounding the campus, since I didn’t read the directions to the church correctly. We finally found the church and then headed back down towards the river – the Potomac. The University is on the high ground overlooking the river. We found a canal and then were able to cross it and walk on a beaten path between the canal and the river down below us. The weather was perfect, 50 degrees, bright sun and just enough of a breeze to make a brisk walk a joy. On our left below, beyond the green trees, bushes and grass, the Potomac shimmered, on our right the canal. At one point, we saw an oarsman in his shell sculling on the sunlit water – a scene out of Eakins and the Schuylkill River. As we returned to where we entered the path along the canal, we could gaze up at the towers of Georgetown and the beautiful homes built on the hillside. We came back to the streets and noticed the “1789 House”, a restaurant with a long history in Georgetown. I remembered visiting it in the early 70s after running the Marine Corps Marathon just across the Potomac. We once again passed the church where the wedding would be and noted a plaque on the pillar outside commemorating President Kennedy’s visits to this church. It was his parish when he was a Senator and he continued to visit it as President. It now would be immortalized with or without a plaque as the church where Ron and Mary T. met and made their commitment to love and cherish from that day on.

The walk had consumed nearly two hours. We rested and then headed upstairs to a reception being hosted by Mary’s Mom. There was finger food and cocktails and we met the groom’s parents and some of his brothers and sisters. I believe that Ron is from a family of 7, but I am not certain, since I heard at one time it was 8. In any event, a number of them were present – pleasant interlude that included the grandchildren running about, and up and down the corridors. We also met Father Lacey, who was to celebrate the Mass. He remembered Father Pat when he attended St. Joe’s Prep.

The rehearsal was at 4pm and gave us our first view inside the church – a simple rectangular building with a small dome in the front. White stucco outside, stained glass windows, a simple unadorned altar except for a large cross in the apse. The white marble steps and floor of the altar area give it a look of purity and brightness of spirit. The choir loft is small, ten rows, with a large pipe organ the centerpiece. On the platform, with the altar to the right, was a beautiful grand piano of black enameled wood. Most of the music for the Mass was played from this piano.

The rehearsal went well – both times. Mary’s memos were discussed and we learned of them for the first time. She had specific written instructions for all participants, from the “greeters” Paul and Andy, to the wedding party, to the presiding Deacon, her brother-in-law, to her reader and responsorial singer and Woman of Honor, her sister, to her other brothers with specific tasks. It was a matter of some humor and in good spirit was also a subject of the rehearsal dinner’s toast. It really, in fact, was one more tribute to Mary and Ron’s planning. As the rehearsal began Father Lacey, commented regarding some action that need be taken in the ceremony – “Since this is a rather hastily prepared wedding…!?” It brought smiles and chuckles to all!

Having been well planned, the rehearsal was no problem. Then it was off to the “rehearsal” dinner back in Ron and Mary’s stomping grounds. The, restaurant was Chadwick’s in Alexandria along the water. We dined in the upstairs loft, overlooking the main bar. The toast was provided by the Deacon, Tom, the Matron of Honor’s husband and father of Kate, Margaret and Colleen. We were seated with Loretta and her little girl who soon became the center of our table with her big eyes and constant action. There was gift giving by the bride and groom. Loretta was the recipient of a beautifully framed verse written in Gothic calligraphy extolling the love of the bride for her best friend. It was a fitting close to a beautiful day and bode what was to be a better tomorrow.

The 12^th of November came cool and crisp to the hills of Georgetown. I went to the cafeteria for coffee and juice after a short walk around the track adjacent to the Center where we stayed. As I returned to the lobby, there was Mary ready for a run. We got a big hug and I wished her the best on this day of days. She was soon joined by her brothers, Bill, Paul and Danny. They were off to greet the day and launch their “little” sister’s Wedding Day. I felt proud that one of my good habits had been accepted and passed on – it was a good feeling. The scene brought to mind a line from Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar “The evil that men do lives after them. The good is often interred with their bones.” Incidentally, the occasion was recorded on film, which will hopefully record the steam coming from their mouths as they stood posing.

The next step was the dressing – the tux, with all its accessories. My beloved valet made it all happen with the minimum of effort. We had been instructed (no memo) to check in at “Wedding Central” at 10:30am to have pictures taken. We arrived at the room to see our beautiful daughter adorned in the classic white lace with train and headpiece. She was oozing with joy and bubbling with humor – helped by her bridesmaids and her sister. The photographer, Dan, was seeing that it was being preserved for posterity. After having been flashed at for 30 minutes or so, we headed down through the building and out onto the campus for the walk to the church. We were oo’d and ah’d all the way through the corridors and on the campus we stopped the traffic of people and cars.

We arrived about 20 minutes before noon. I went behind the church altar out to a small building to obtain my flowers. Others were bustling about carrying out their instructions. We could see them occasionally checking the memos! Lori, with the flowers; Andy with the rite of entry; Sue was up on the altar practicing her responsorial psalm; Tom was reviewing his notes with the celebrant, Father Lacey; and I and the bride and her other attendants watched from the choir loft. Then the people began to be escorted to their seats – the grandchildren all quite restless seated in the second row. Andy and Paul could be seen instructing those they escorted to be sure they joined in the signing. The Bride in the loft kept losing her veil, but finally decided to just leave it off until they walk up the aisle. Loretta, her good friend and bridesmaid, advising here – “Marriage is great Mary! With or without children”. (Loretta has a little girl and is expecting another child next spring).

I watched the panorama of color and actions and mused how pleasing it was to see the children become men and women. It also made me feel so grateful to be here to see down below the grandchildren, June, sisters, brother Dick, the bright sun illuminating the scene. It was great to be alive! This was the day the Lord has made! This was a great occasion. The beginning of a new life, the life of Ron and Mary as one, and it was the end of one more part of mine. I still jokingly said “I couldn’t believe ‘my girl’ would give me up for another man!”

The vows were received by Deacon Tom Baker and by 12:30pm on the 12^th of November the Bride and Groom became “Mr. and Mrs.” By 12:45pm “Mrs.” was giving directions to “Mr.” with head signs and other signals as to where he should stand. It was, of course, noticed with humor by all those in the congregation – assurance that they certainly are married!

We will continue our trip at a later date. We want t~ put this much on its way for a Thanksgiving gift although it will be even late for that.

Happy Thanksgiving!

To continue my F.O.B. journey there were a few more reportable items (or trivia if you prefer). The Mass was beautifully conducted. The readings and singing excellent (despite the Woman of Honor having early morning hoarseness). The Offertory procession of all the nephews and nieces was a tender touch – but it appeared that Margaret Clare (Meg) was very reluctant to surrender what was it she carried down the aisle. Paul Jr. has corrected me, he was not a Greeter – he was a “Pied Piper” for the “Gift Bearers”. He assembled the eight nieces and nephews and escorted them down the aisle with help from Cindy Yake. The homily, in keeping with the theme, “Should We Wait For A Better Times” was well done. The entire ceremony spoke volumes on the thinking and the management skills of Mary and Ron. A very cerebral celebration!

The ceremony completed, we continued with a walk back to the center, with some delay and a group picture at Hurley Hall, a Gothic structure fitting the formal attire. Then on to the toast, the meal, the dancing. The F.O.B. got to dance with the Bride to “Unforgettable” and so it will be. But the ”piece de resistance” was the finale! Mary Theresa “Bonnie Raitt” (now Yake) singing “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About” And she did! It was a fitting conclusion to a joyous occasion.

We did return to the Hoya after the official reception ended and chatted with friends and neighbors. We even managed to eat again, but it was interrupted by an emergency when Meg got her finger caught in the sliding elevator door. She was taken to the emergency room right next to the Center. At breakfast the next morning you would never have believed she had had such a traumatic night before.

The Bride and Groom were off to Ireland and soon we’ll all be recipients of cards and photos I’m sure. (June and I did receive a postcard and a thank you note).

The wedding and the F.O.B.’s journey overlooked a previous event of note the week before, i.e. the A to Z 10 K Run. It was held on Sunday, the 6th of November. It was from the Aquarium in Camden to the Zoo in Philadelphia. Paul, Jr. and Richard T. McSorley were entered. It was Paul’s first competitive run, and maybe even Richard’s although I’m not certain. We had perfect 50-degree weather and were bused from the Zoo to the Aquarium. Paul Keeley, a neighbor runner, Paul, Jr. and I arrived at the Aquarium about 40 minutes ahead of the 8:30 a.m. starting time. Enough time to make a tour of the grounds and even into the main lobby of the building. I was very impressed with the extent of the grounds and the entire complex. It sits high on the Delaware River bank, above a marina and ferry dock. It has several walkways of brick down to the river and to the ferry dock, a large parking area, and even some outdoor pools for the seals, etc.

We waited until nearly gun time for Rich to appear. As everyone went down the hill on the city side of the Aquarium to run, there on the last bus, came Richard and his girlfriend, Fran who was also going to run. We made some quick intros and then off we went to join the crowd of about 1500 runners. Paul, Jr. and ran through Camden together with Paul Keeley breaking quickly ahead of us. When we got to the Ben Franklin Bridge Paul, Jr. took off up the hill, while I started what seemed an interminable climb. Having crossed it thousands of times in a car, it just never seemed that steep or that long – probably half a mile. But oh! What it seemed to be! The bridge was the last I saw of Paul and then out Race Street onto the Parkway up to the Art Museum and across the Schuylkill to the West River Drive.

I was happy with my pace and saw some friends en-route. As we left the West River Drive going up an incline to 34th Street I heard a grunt to my left and turned to see Richard coming up and passing me. We gave him a vocal boost but must report that he was not in a chatting mood, probably due to his effort in catching the old man! We all met at the finish line, where June, Tracy, Paulie, and the twins were cheering as we came into the chute. They, Tracy (with Paulie in a stroller), June and Sean and David had walked in the group mile walk. They reported starting at the very end of the group (almost not making it) and finishing, at least June and the twins, almost as the leaders.

Paul’s time put him well below 9 minutes per mile, as predicted by his sometime coach and father. He’s got the “bug”. On Turkey Day he entered a five-mile Turkey Trot with Paul Keeley and his relatives.

I’m keeping this short so I can add a Christmas note to each of you. This will conclude the Jottings for ’94!

October 1, 1994:

The shimmering, red-gold ball pushed its way up a notch over the horizon. I was looking across the green grasses and the inland waterways and the south end of Ocean City, New Jersey. The sky was a kaleidoscope of colors all emanating from the big ball inching its way up to the white and gray above. It was sunrise in Marmora. (Sounds like a line from a song!). A new day was beginning and I was ending a promise I made in January while visiting Hahnemann Hospital – I would return to Atlantic City to run a half marathon where in 1992 I had won the award for my age group. The only slight difference was that instead of half a marathon I was running more like a quarter – a 10 K, or 6.2 miles for those non-track buffs. I felt like a kid going back to school after the summer break. Yes it meant a little or more than a little work, but seeing all my old friends, meeting new ones and the challenge of the run, it all had a familiar feel, one you enjoy recalling even when it’s tinged with a bit of fear. The weather made it even more so – the crisp clear air of cool October made the scene even more back-to-school like.

The run was mostly “on the Boardwalk in Atlantic City” (sounds like a line from another song?) Starting in front of the Showboat Casino going north to New Hampshire Avenue, west to Gardiner’s Basin and returning to the Showboat, then south on the Boardwalk to the Tropicana Casino and then north to the finish line at the Showboat. I thought these directions might be help­ful to all of you who intend to try to run a 10K in Atlantic City (Maps will be issued on request).

The day was perfect. I ran comfortably and noted Bill Rodgers running in third place with the youngsters in the 5K. They were heading back on New Hampshire to the boardwalk as we headed out. I had attended a clinic on Saturday where he was the guest speaker. For those non-runners, Bill Rodgers was the four-time winner of the Boston Marathon and the New York Marathon. He is now 46 and set a world age record in the 5K just a few weeks ago. I was speaking to one of the organizers of the run and clinic, Norman Draper (who has, incidentally, some McSorley’s in his family tree) before he was to introduce Bill. I told him that “I’ve been behind Bill his entire career”, giving him support of course. He, Norm, thought it might be a good intro, but then decided on a more serious one.

My running past came to fore yesterday (10/19) when a front-page article on Dr. Walt McConnell appeared. The article dealt with his attempt in 1989 to reach the top of Mount Everest and his hectic life as an ER physician in Dover, NJ. He spent 11 years in preparation for the climb and 15 months actually on the mountain and its surroundings in immediate preparations. He raised $210,000 to make the attempt. Had he reached the top at 57 years of age (in 1989) he would have been the oldest person to do so. He got within 3000 feet when his headlamp (it was in morning darkness) failed and he got separated from his guides and fellow climber. He returned to his tent with a frostbitten hand and waited for them to return. His fellow climber, Torres, the first Mexican to climb Mount Everest, re­turned joyously, but also saddened since one of the guides had not -he was presumed to have fallen into one of the many crevices. Walt’s life as an ER physician is just as dramatic with life and death hanging on every diagnosis.

I met Walt in 1972 when I ran my best half marathon over one of the toughest courses around the Caesar Rodney. Caesar is the horseman standing now in the center of Wilmington, Delaware to commemorate his ride of three days to Philadelphia to sign the Declaration of Independence. His full name was Caesar Augustus Rodney!

The course includes several hills of good dimensions around the city of Wilmington. I had run somewhere around 1 hour 22 minutes and was announced as the winner of the Master’s Award. Then someone said “Say, Walt, aren’t you over 40?” He was. He was Walt McConnell who had just run 1 hour 20 minutes, and of course, the winner of the Master’s Award. We, Walt and I, later met when the Philadelphia Masters R.R. Club & the Central New Jersey R.R. Club had a home and away cross-country meet. We retained the trophy with 2 out of 3 wins. Bill King still has the cup (I think).

It was a relief to see someone we knew in the news for something other than disbarment or an obituary. June had been reminding me of this each time I mentioned I know this or that certain person.

October 26, 1994:

Just received word that my effort in Atlantic City re­sulted in my finishing second in my age group (60-69). The winner was only 18 seconds ahead of me. I am surprised and, of course, pleased but I also know of a runner over 70 years of age who would and did finish minutes ahead of me, so it’s not an age thing alone – it’s the condition of the runner, etc. (By the way, the maps referred to earlier will only be prepared upon request, so get those letters in early!).

We had guests for the weekend of the 21st through the 24th – Betty & Jerry Hopkins. They are always good company with multiple laughs at every turn. We witnessed the movie “Piano” together. None of us had a clear idea of what it was about – other than a love story and a piano. We were all disappointed. The action was slow. The muteness of the star even added to that. The explicit sex scenes were a surprise in light of its Academy Award nomination and the star winning an Oscar. It was too much psychoanalysis type love affair for us. However, we all enjoyed “Grumpy Old Men”, starring Walter Matthau, Jack Lemmon and Burgess Meredith. Now there was something we could relate to with enthusiasm. Just happened to remind us all of someone or some people we knew or have known over the years.

We find ourselves, June and I, relaxing once again by the sea. It is October and it is beautiful! Cool nights, bright sunshine days, and temperatures ranging from the 40s to the 70s. We walked to dinner Thursday night (10/6) – “Marabella’s” – real Italian cuisine. As we returned home along Ocean Drive (which runs along the inland waterway) we were absorbed by a beautiful sunset. The myriad of color over the bay and the green islands beyond were breathtaking. It was a grand show, overwhelming in its beauty and the aura of power and majesty it exuded as the world turned and the sun moved – another day came to an end. It was good to be alive and enthralled. It made us both once again wish for the ability to paint, so you could hold that moment of beauty and awe forever.

On Friday the bright sun and cool air made it ideal for a walk. June had been talking about seeing how far down Ocean Drive she could walk in an hour, i.e., an hour one way. The day seemed made for such an enterprise. So off we went at a fair pace, not her usual “power walk pace”, south straight towards Stone Harbor. After sixty minutes we had reached 80^th Street – Stone Harbor. We returned via Dune Drive. It took us over 2 hours for the entire trip and we covered more than 8 miles. If this keeps up, I’ll have June walking a marathon sooner or later.

The days dwindle down to the precious few before the Nuptials of the year. We hope all of you have properly responded as required or expect a call from your Congressman. We invited Mary to run a 10K with us on November 6^th, but she seems preoccupied, or busy, or at least not overly concerned – seems strange, no?

Just a note in closing: I heard a police officer on one of the TV shows say, when talking to a nun, “Sister, I was educated by Jesuits and they taught me ‘How to think’ and I’ve never felt safe since!”

I know how he feels! Cogito ergo terroum. 

September 11, 1994:

The time has flown. It is now September, and we find ourselves in Avalon in beautiful weather with the twins’ grand­parents, Betty and Jerry Hopkins as guests. I note that I omitted to report on the doings at Myrtle Beach, it seems we keep moving so fast that the chronicler can’t keep up.

The highlight of Myrtle Beach was a bus trip to Charleston, South Carolina. David, June and I boarded a bus outside our Myrtle Beach hotel and after a pleasant two-hour ride along the Atlantic Ocean, arrived in downtown Charleston. A spritely matron guide (guidess?) boarded the bus and immediately began singing “Nothing could be finer than to be in Carolina in the morning…”, awakening all those who thought we were going to get just another dull, historic tour. She then went on as the bus drove around downtown Charleston, des­cribing the architecture and proudly noting, “in Charleston we never let anything just rot away”, preservation is their byword.

We spent an hour in the downtown open markets. June brought a straw hat, hand made, and so did I, which my grandson, David, wore the rest of the day.

We spent another two hours going over the Charleston Bay to Fort Sumter, the sight of the first shots heard to begin the evil War, and then back around the Bay. We did the Sumter trip after lunch at a riverside cafe.

I think I will send this out now or we will be another several weeks. I promise to try harder to catch up and keep up in the future, even cutting down on some more of the trivia.

Just a note: Father Dick is recovering from surgery. He’s at Georgetown Community House, Georgetown University, Washington, DC 20007. There will be more on all of the above later.

NOTE: Father Dick will be 80 years old on October 2nd. You might want to send him a card to celebrate to event.

August 22, 1994:­

It is now the 22^nd day of August, and I just re-read the above pages, winding down from July. The intervening days have been busy ones. I write this looking out from the third floor living room, the calm Atlantic some 200 yards away. It’s our annual sojourn to Myrtle Beach. We have only one twin this time, David. The other, Sean, remained at home to parti­cipate in football practice. Michael Golden and Cindy, with Kelly and Matthew are also here, down on the first floor.

Since July closed, we have visited New York City to see “Beauty and the Beast”, celebrated an anniversary on the 14th of August and travelled to this South Carolina resort with a stop­over in Fayetteville, North Carolina.

The musical version of the Walt Disney show, “Beauty and the Beast” was highly entertaining. It was a reproduction in storyline of the movie, but the scenery, costumes and dance/musical numbers were outstanding. One particularly memorable moment was the dance/musical number “Be Our Guest!” The unusual charac­ters all were reproductions of items found in a kitchen, like an eggbeater, rolling pin, spoons, forks, knives, etc. It was a joy to watch. The show was a pleasant surprise since, while knowing the story, reading the book, or seeing the movie usually reduces one’s enjoyment. It did not this time. June had watched the video three times with the grandchildren, and still thrilled to the music and dancing.

We made the trip to New York via Metroliner, a very pleasant railroad ride and change from the auto. We walked to the theater after lunch in the station and walked back to the station in time for the last Metro out at 5:30pm. We arrived at 30th Street about 6:35pm. and drove to the shore, stopping in Pleasantville for dinner.

Our visitors of the weekend were Sue, Tom, Meg, Kate and Colleen. I had had the pleasure on the Wednesday prior of driving Kate to Avalon. She was pleasant and entertaining company. She kept me alert with her questions, most of which I didn’t feel I adequately answered, but she never once asked “Are we there yet?” so I must have been doing something right! She was very happy about being away for two nights. Her Mom and Dad were coming down on Friday. She did seem very pleased when Meg, Mom, Dad and baby Colleen arrived.

The anniversary was celebrated with dinner at the new Italian restaurant “DeLucce’s” at 8^th and First Avenue in what was once called the Avalon Hotel. It is now condos. We cele­brated our 13^th with a quiet meal as the weather outside clouded up for a super thunderstorm. We had planned to walk, but the threatening clouds made us decide to drive and we were grateful we did so, since as we came out to start for home the clouds were about to explode. Later they did.

Often, as I write these jottings, journals, or what have you, I consider the material trivial, something that would not really concern my readers. I often re-write and extract some of the more insignificant details. So it was with interest and pleasure to read someone else’s thoughts on such matters. Specifically, I am reading the life of Thomas Jefferson who, during his lifetime, did some pretty heavy and undoubtedly significant writing. Nevertheless, his personal communication, as we all know, was by letters. While he was Ambassador to France, he wrote about his thoughts on this matter of insigni­ficancy. It was the best argument yet for sometimes forgetting what we might call trivia. It reads:

“Of political correspondence I can find enough. But I can persuade nobody to believe that the small facts which they see passing daily under their eyes are precious to me at this distance; much more interesting to the heart than events of higher rank. Fancy to yourself a being who is withdrawn from his connection of blood, of marriage, of friendship, of acquaintances in all their graduations, who, for years should hear nothing of what has passed among them, who returns again to see them and finds some half dead. This strikes him like a pestilence sweeping off the half of mankind…Continue then to give me the facts, little facts, such as you think everyone imagines beneath notice and your letters will be most precious to me.”

We, of course, are not as isolated as Thomas Jefferson in the 1780s, when mail from the colonies took weeks. We have the phone, the great communicator, so the desolation of Thomas Jefferson is not among us. This paragraph was in a letter to his sister, Elizabeth Epps, who was raising Jefferson’s daughter, Polly. He had 6 daughters, 4 of whom died young, some at birth. His wife also died at age 33. His daughter, Patsy, the eldest, was with him in France. Another of his daughters (one of the 4 mentioned above) died in his sister’s care and he learned about it after the fact (she was 2 years old). His lamentations are understandable, and fortunately for me, my “connections of blood, of marriage, of friendship, of acquaintances in all their graduations” are not “withdrawn”. So enough trivia is comm­unicated. Nevertheless, it was enlightening and encouraging seeing some consider a place for trivia. We shall, however, since we are not in the 1780s but the 1990s, try to weed out the more insignificant trivia.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THOUGHT FOR THE MONTH:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

June 11, 1994:

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

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

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

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

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

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

Peter Hamill says:

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

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

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

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

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

June 25, 1994:

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

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

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

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

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

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