Paul McSorley's Jottings

“And what is so rare as a day in June? Then, if ever, come perfect days” (Lowell) 

Well, today is not what you might describe as “perfect”. It is overcast and rain showers predicted. But the other thoughts in Lowe1l’s poem are ringing true. “Now is the high tide of the year, and whatever of life hath ebbed away comes flooding back with ripply cheer ••• ” or, as Ogden Nash was want to say, “Spring is sprung, and grass is riz, and this is where the classes is” or something remotely similar.

Yesterday I spent al1 morning at Holy Redeemer Hospital having a stress test. At one point I lay on a table shaped like a large sewer pipe cut in half, in the dark, while a computerized, large camera that looked like a big metal homburg crept over me inch by inch for fifteen minutes. It was making a video of my heart in action. It was filming the muscle as it worked some fluid injected an hour earlier through its chambers. While lying there, there was placed on my stomach and on the right side of my chest heavy metal slabs. I thought, in jest, this is how it might feel in the grave with the stone over me. That’s one of the reasons I don’t want a stone – especially since I intend to make an ash of myself (to save space).

All of which made Lowell’s song all the more re1evant, especially last weekend, Memorial Day weekend. The weather was gorgeous and I managed two days of playing golf and enjoy¬ing those “rare days” in May.

The “tempus” continues to “fugit” so it has been since Easter that I have had an opportunity to report the “moving” events in the lives of Paul and June (ha!). Easter was spent in painting the walls of the rooms of the condo. But the event of the month had to be Paul Jr.’s open house party. The strangest thought and feeling I .had was how did he get all these friends and people’s friends that I don’t even know. The father in me keeps feeling he’s still just this great young man who now lives away from home, but I still know everything about him. Well, what a surprising and pleasant shock to see this nice young man in his own world, now an adult and a long way from the Father’s house at 734 Chandler Street. Well, not too far physically since he is now at 821 Chandler Street, but light years away from the memory place where Dad has kept him.

I managed to spend most of the party chasing the girls, as usual. The damsels were Linda, Kate and Meg, who had Pop-Pop in tow for nearly an hour keeping him in and out of the house, up and down the cellar steps, into bubble blowing, and on and on and on. With women like these it is important you stay in good shape or you’ll never keep up!

April also saw the merger of two business tycoons, Paul, Jr. and Tom into McCloy, Inc. The major problem at the Board Meeting was whether Paul should be Vice President or Secretary or just Secretary. It ended with the Board declaring him Secretary only, mainly because Paul found out that it meant that he gets to sign the stock certificates! McCloy’s is really now McSorley’s, but for the time being they will live off the old goodwill of McCloy’s, since McSorley’s is only known in the area as a tavern in Haverford (Paul Jr.’s former hangout!}.

I ended April in my annual Penn Relay run. Once again churning into Franklin Field with an announcement of my arrival and one year older. I thought I did well so I hung around to see if I drew a prize in the over 60 category. I had run close to 8:30 minutes a mile. Well, so much for “great expectations”. The category was won by a 71 year old, Hubert Morgan, in a time close to 7 minutes a mile. I was 6th out of 12 in the age category, i.e., 60 and over. Shows you how many “old guys” are out there beating the sidewalks and the odds.

The run of the month, however, was the Washington Parkway lSK on April 25th. But I just realized I’m repeating myself. I told “you all” about this in my last report. A sign of old age is loss of memory leading to repetition, but it was a great run with great company so it deserves a second applause.
My birthday was spent in Hershey. A gift from my June. I played golf both mornings right on the hills beside the hotel on a nine hole course. I went out at 7 a.m., played 9 holes, had an enormous breakfast, then went back out at 11:30 for 9 more. A great way to celebrate. As usual, we ate too much but had some great walks, up and down Hershey Hill.

So now it is June and the green is spreading faster, except in our backyard. The new fence makes our backyard a world unto its own. We do have two lively twin girls next door who visit and romp .in the yard making our private world in June as it should be, filled with children, innocence and life on the “high tide”.

As so, as Lowell says:

“And Hark! how clear bold chanticleer (jottaleer!)
Warmed by the new wine of the year,
Tells all in his lusty crowing!”

June is here, and I am crowing.

Today is the 7th of May, 1993. Whatever happened to March and April? The “7th of May” was a political thriller a few years back — something about a military conspiracy to take over the Presidency and the doomsday was the 7th of May. As I recall a Marine Colonel — an aide to the President — foils the attempt, but the title somehow stays with me.

Today is the 7th of May and 9 days before I celebrate my 64 years here on earth. I keep hearing in my head a Beatles’ song with the lines “…will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I’m sixty-four?” I can’t remember anything else about the song, but I can remember when I first heard it think¬ing 64 was old and way off. You can imagine my opinions have altered now that I’m almost there.

Now, what did happen to March and April? Well, March was digested by a trip to Florida and April seems to have gotten lost in Easter and trips to Avalon, Washington and West Chester, with a little spring, grass and yard time thrown in.

Last week on the lst Sunday in May, Mary and I ran down Broad Street -10 miles. It was a first for Mary and a first for her Dad, i.e., having a daughter join him in the Broad Street Run. Bill helped me down Broad Street last year when I suffered a sciatica problem. He passed this year since he’s train¬ing to run a one mile race under 5 minutes. It comes up in July and we may get to watch him reach his goal.

The Sunday before we ran with Mary also. We, June and I, travelled to D.C., actually Arlington, Virginia, to join Mary in a run from George Washington’s home in Mount Vernon, VA to Alexandria – a 15K run or 9.3 miles. Dad ran along with Mary over the George Washington Parkway -a rolling roadway through green Virginia country, ending along the Potomac in Alexandria. We covered the ground in one hour and thirty minutes which included a “dramatic dash” to the finish. Well, almost a “dramatic dash”. The trouble was the finish line kept moving just around another corner, so dramatic became phlegmatic when the finish moved the third time. But we did it and almost crossed the finish line holding hands -the separation of the sexes at that point prevented us from doing so. I saw an old buddy of mine who was the race Administrator, a former Cardinal Dougherty teacher, City of Philadelphia Recreation Department employee, Chris Tatreau. Chris is now a full time race director, or manager. He was also managing the Broad Street Run. I remember planning the “Super Sunday” Marathon with Chris in 1976 -the Bicentennial year. We managed to get him a sponsorship by Provident Bank – a grand $3,000 – so it became the Provident Super Sunday Marathon. The first Sunday in October. Later it lost the Super Sunday title due to a legal hassle and became the Provident-Bulletin Marathon. Today there is no Bulletin and Provident has been absorbed by some other bank and Chris travels the country and the world managing races.

Easter was spent in Avalon. We mixed plesure with work. June and I painted the hall and front bedroom on Thursday and Friday. I did manage to play 18 holes on Friday with Tony Durkin -my administrator when I was Commissioner of Records (twenty years ago) who is retired and lives in Rio Grande.

Our usual Easter Brunch at the Whitebriar is over. The numbers kept growing and living accommodations became impossible, but also, the Whitebriar is closed. Maybe not because we stopped the brunch, but at least they both seemed to end at the same time. The last few visits we had at the Whitebriar forebode the decline. They lacked the excellence from previous years in food quality and service so it probably wasn’t because we discontinued the brunch.

March was devoured by our trip to Florida. We were invited to stay at Rich and Shirley’s home with them the week of March 20-28 in St. Petersburg. We had decided to drive. Rich and Shirley were driving to Horton, VA where they would board the auto-train. We left Thursday morning around 7 a.m. with the remnants of the Blizzard of ’93 all around us.

(Here it is the 17th of May and I’m still trying to finish a few jottings.)

Florida was a suprise. We stayed at Rich and Shirley’s home in Shore Acres -a suburb of St. Petersburg. The home is on a stream-canal. Just sitting out back and watching the water was joy enough, but we did much more. Busch Gardens on Monday, a cruise out into the Bay on Tuesday, Wednesday at “Jon’s Pass” in Maderia Beach, a shopping mall in the form of a pier, with even a pirate’s restaurant for lunch-“Blackbeard” of course. Thursday we were off to Orlando. We arrived around 11:30 a.m. and checked in and then went off to “Universal Studios” from noon until 8 p.m. Friday was more Universal and Saturday Sea World. We drove home Sunday and Monday, arriving about 3:30 p.m. on March 29th.

The time was well spent. We enjoyed Rich and Shirley’s home and company. We, Rich and I, played some golf on Sunday, but after 4 holes and intermittent showers, resigned. I returned home to find June and Shirley out shopping, so I went for a run -across the next isle -called Snell Island and on into St. Petersburg along the Bay. It was warm and slightly humid, but the sights were .a welcome change from the snow and ice covered streets of Philly.

The cruise ship was the “Europa Jet”. It was a test to see how June’s sea legs might develop. The cruise was from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. with lunch on board. It also had slot machines, live music and dancing on the deck. June broke the slot machine she was playing and came away a winner.
The highlight of Universal for me was the ride on “Back to the Future”. In common parlance, it was “awesome”! The effects caused by sound, sight and motion, while never leaving your seat or room, was a marvel of technology. I also enjoyed watching, in three stages, the making of an episode of “Murder She Wrote”, showing how sound effects the action and how characters can be removed and replaced by proper film editing. I also congratulated myself on being able to stand in line, a moving, weaving line, for one hour to enjoy a six minute ride, in “Back to the Future”. I highly recommend a visit if you have the opportunity.

We have had two months (today is 5/19/93) since our trip to think about it. The result is we look forward to going back, maybe next time via Baton Rouge and Sr. Mary and then along the coast to the St. Pete.-Tampa area. In the meantime, we are planning a trip to Nova Scotia in October and before that Avalon, Myrtle Beach and who knows where.

I hope to keep in touch, but make no promises. While delaying in getting this out has reminded me of the letter Dad used to issue each “week” addressed to all of the children away individually, as in “Dear Frank, Dick, Pat” etc., etc. I can still hear him dictating it to Rebecca Welsh. It got top priority. Which reminds me, another era will be starting this week, with Judy working only two days, usually Tuesday and Wednesday, as the practice winds down.

Las Vegas, the land of “Gild and Glitz.” It welcomed us on a cloudy Monday afternoon after a five hour flight. The city sits in the bottom of a bowl, whose sides are broad and red hills – or mountains. The city is named for the green it has “the meadow” in the desert of Nevada. It was a train stop on the way to California and Colorado and Oklahoma until silver was discovered. Now it lives in the glitter of neon and skyscrapers where people leave their silver and whatever else they care to spend. It is not many who take something out of the rivers of casinos as the prospectors did years ago. It stays. But our little group of June, Tracy, Mary Lou, her friend Kathy, and Walt and I did bring some back – a little silver and some golden memories.

The first full day, Tuesday, December 1, 1992, June and I decided to visit the old city of Las Vegas. On our last visit we never got that far. We were staying at “The Mirage” on the Strip. A “Wonderland” of skyscaper, white tigers, a volcano on the front lawn – one of the newest and biggest hotels in the new Las Vegas. We had walked to the end of the strip, or nearly, we believed on our last visit. So, with the map as a guide, we felt it would be no problem to head down a few more blocks into downtown Las Vegas. Once again our map reading was wanting. The walk took over an hour and it turned out to be 4 miles in distance one way.

We visited some of the local casinos – “Fitzgerald” and “Golden Nugget.” I walked up and down Fremont Avenue thinking of how I had just read some things about John C. Fremont, the pathfinder, opportunist, political candidate and soldier of the age of “manifest destiny.” He was the Republican candidate for President in 1856. He lost to a Pennsylvanian, James Buchanan – the only bachelor in the White House. He also ran against Lincoln for the party’s nomination in 1864 and lost. His former Commander-in- chief had fired him during the early part of the Civil War for disobeying orders, somewhat like Douglas MacArthur.

I wondered what General Fremont would have thought of this street, named for him, full of discount stores, t-shirts, souveniers, honky-tonk casinos – probably just his kind of place if he recognized it all.

We did bus back to our hotel, both swearing that we could probably walk it, but it was “getting late” and “we had a show to visit that night.” “Wild Thing” was the show. It was very good. It had orangutans that were more human than humans, a magician, an ice show, dancing girls – good entertainment. The next day we visited Hoover Dam. It is on the border of Nevada and Arizona on the Colorado River. It is awesome. Between the chasm of the mountains it rises 660 feet (66 stories). If you ever go to Las Vegas this is one tour you should have on your list. We did a half-day tour. The dam is located some 30 miles into the mountains from downtown Las Vegas. The ride was interrupted with a stop in Boulder Town for a short film – footage taken during the actual construction in the 1930s. It was finished two years ahead of schedule in 1935 on budget and cost 96 lives. In 1986 the mortgage was paid off and it is now making money for all of us. It supplies the city of Los Angeles with its power, plus a great number of towns in between. We had a tour into the belly of the dam – down 53 floors in an elevator, then a walk to the floor of the dam. We saw the 30 foot wide tunnels cut into the mountain to divert the Colorado River while the dam was built – a train passes through them with ease. A trip to Hoover Dam – once called Boulder – is an education in engineering – it reminded me of what wonder the pyramids must arouse and more. It was originally named Boulder Dam but was changed to Hoover in 1946 in memory of the engineer who conceived the project with others when he was Secretary of Commerce under Coolidge.

(I write most of this on 12/16/92 and have just been reminded that it is the 222nd birthday of Beethoven the composer, not the dog. Makes 63 seems like a drop in the bucket of time).

Another memorable event was the trip home. We arrived a few hours before plane time so we could leave more money at the slot machines in the airport. Walt and I stayed behind with the luggage from the bus (we were joined with a group by our travel agent) while June and the other proceeded to the gate. As we arrived at the gate June hit a jackpot – 840 (or so) quarters – $219. We then had only 20 minutes or so before boarding the plane and I learned that the quarters had to go to the main concourse to be redeemed. So, off I went with two plastic bags of quarters. I arrived back in time to board, but our trip was not to begin. After a 35 minute delay we were informed that part of an anti-skid device for the brakes had to be replaced and “we were looking for the part.” Next, at 45 minutes, we learned that it might have to come from Los Angeles. At one hour we were advised that the plane was not leaving until 4 p.m. (it was now around 1 p.m.). We were ordered back to the terminal to transfer to another airline. We were convinced it was a conspiracy – they were not letting us leave Las Vegas with any money – they knew June had just won $200 and “they” wanted it back!

We transferred to American Airlines (we were on Northwest) and went home via Dallas, Texas – one of June’s favorite football towns. We arrived back at Dorcas Street around 1 a.m. Saturday, December 5th, tired but still in possession of the $200, finally having outsmarted whoever it is that sees that no money ever leaves Las Vegas.

11/19/92
Reading this over it occurred to me that if I don’t soon move on, I’ll be on my way back to Myrtle Beach and still haven’t let you know what a great time it was in 1992. I also had the thought that describing the twins as being “aghast” when the singing waitress sat on my lap was a bit presumptuous and probably what I felt they should feel – horrified!. But on further thought, I’m sure they were not “aghast” or “alarmed” by my conduct (or the waitress’) but amused or tickled by the whole proceeding.

The trip back was delightful. We had to leave 95 in Virginia both for gas and because of a tie-up. As we drove east towards Route 1, we ran smack into the entrance to Quantico Marine Base. The past was right before me. The gate I had entered thirty- eight years ago was still there, only the people had changed.

The trip home was also full of concern for Mary Lou’s health. Now, three months later, is great to report that her tumor is removed, the incipient cancer nipped in the bud and she is well and ready to set off in two weeks for a week in Las Vegas.

The month of November is a month of memories. Today, the 19th, twenty-two years ago Marge, my sister, and I prepared to head across the country to bury Bishop Frank in Jolo. I had just returned from a week with Winnie and a visit with Jim and Pat in Munich, Germany. We were to spend a week in Jolo and fly to the uppermost islands on a single engine plane. Marge headed back via Seattle and I went on to Hong Kong carrying money to the Bishop’s school there for a few days. Then around the globe, over India, over Greece, into Rome and into Frankfurt, Germany, to land almost one month to the day I had left – having been around the world since then.

It is also the month of my mom’s death, but on the same day, the birthday of Kate Cosgrove Baker. This year she marks number three, while it is hard to remember that Mother’s death was 40 years ago. I can remember when 40 years seemed like such a long time.

10/12/92
The time since Myrtle Beach and even my writing has sped by – it is over a month since I tried to put some words on paper. Since Myrtle Beach we had major surgery on Mary Lou. The big “C. It, thank God, seems to have been caught in time, but she’ll continue to have it monitored. The surgery, recovery and semi-convalescent period used much, if not all, of September, except the last weekend we spent in New York City, a guest of the Carlton House, thanks to a Christmas gift from the McSorley’s. It was a dreary, wet weekend, but we managed a walk up Fifth Avenue to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. We also witnessed the running of the Fifth Avenue Mile (From in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art to 6lst Street, straight down Fifth Avenue). I also got a run in that took me partially on the route of a Marathon I’d run on March 19, 1972.

It was the original New York Marathon which later (1976) moved to the 5 Borough Marathon, now one of the most well known outside of Boston. The run in 1972 began outside the Tavern On The Green, now a famous restaurant – then just a pleasant bar on the edge of the Park. In 1972 the run was peopled by about 750 to 1000 runners and I broke three hours by one second: 2:59:59. I also had company, Father Jim, Father Pat and, I think, Billy. We had put Dad to rest on March 17, 1972 and Jim and Pat were in Philly for the funeral. I remember Pat’s comment about how pleasant it was to watch the run – it was three loops starting and ending at the Tavern On The Green – so each was about an hour for me. Out would come Jim and Pat and cheer me on and then retire to the Tavern On The Green to await the next “fly by.” So here I was 20 plus years later running along the same route. Better still, the night before (Sat.) June and I feasted on the ambiance and the cuisine of the now famous Tavern on the Green Restaurant, now a large glass house with beautiful chandeliers and other sumptuous decor.

The runs on Myrtle Beach were different from the Avalon runs. Maybe because of the texture of the sand – gravely, or the scenery – rows of motels and then greenery hiding motor homes, campsites, or the sluices of water intermittent along the way carrying rain water from the streets off into the ocean. Some as wide as streams, that you had to tip-toe across on rocks, others took just a small leap.

I think one of the dividends or perks of being able to take a run – or jog – was this, seeing new places at a leisurely pace – places where cars may not go – giving the scene time to be asssimilated. So, along the Atlantic in South Carolina I run, musing over the different sand, the same, but different birds, the lack of shells, more stones, and as I do, I find I left the motels and now I run between the sea and green. I see I have travelled for about 30 minutes and decide to turn back, but feel maybe I’ll go into the green and woods and find the highway north (I had run South).

In I go, and find a community of motor homes and trailers. I came to a circle, or almost a circle. In the center is a pond so the road runs around it on both sides. Around I go and head up a road in the northerly direction following a small sign that says “Cabins.” About a half mile later I see the cabins – three or four of them. Since it is still early a.m. they are just coming to life. I pass them and confront a cyclone fence, but lo! wait! there’s a path heading back towards the sea through the jungle of strange trees and vines – so off I go. As I proceed deeper into the woodland, the path shrinks to merely a foot path and then, just as I think I may be breaking out into the beach – another fence! So much for sightseeing!

It was now a question of finding my way back – and so I did, to the circle, to the beach, to the motel. The next day I went further down the beach and came to another mobile home campsite called “Pirate’s Land,” a very extensive community with streets, named after the states and a large lake in the center of it. This time I did the non-male thing, I asked for directions out to Rt. 17! Once on the right road, Pirate’s Trail, I worked my way back to 17 and home. Sightseeing on foot is still an adventure and I’d do it all over again. Later I learned that “Pirates Grove” was one of the places June and her gang had camped at several years ago.

The week before we left I was discussing a future appointment with a client to be scheduled after I returned. It turned, naturally, to where we were going – “Mrytle Beach.” “Me too!” says the client. “When?” “We leave on the 14th and arrive on the 15th.” “Me too!” says the client. Staying till the 22nd and, as you can guess, so was he. He went with his wife, his wife’s sister and her husband once a year to play golf and relax. He gave me a brochure of all of the 77 golf courses and we agreed I would join him on Tuesday (8/18) at one called Marsh Harbor for a 7 a.m. tee-off. The map showed it to be north of North Myrtle Beach and in a cove out towards the ocean. So, around 6 a.m. on that date I started north through Myrtle Beach and up towards North Myrtle Beach. It appeared on the map that I had that it was about a 20 minute drive through Myrtle Beach and then North Myrtle Beach and then about 10 more to the golf course. At 6:55 a.m. I stopped, lost somewhere in North Myrtle Beach at a gas station. I inquired first of the complex where my client was staying in North Myrtle Beach called “Ocean Creek.” Now this was 57 acre complex running from the main highway, Route 17, to the Ocean comprised of 4 towers each some 30 to 40 stories high. My gas station attendant/store keeper was not any help “Never heard of it!” So I called my client and he told me to get back to 17 and keep going north to Route 97 which went out a peninsula to the course – only a mile on that but still 10 miles up 17. They would leave and preserve our tee time or close to it.

I found Rt. 72 about 3 blocks from the station, and lo! and behold! as I turned north on it, there was “Ocean Creek.” So much for the locals observation talents- it covered a 4 to 5 block area just on Route 17.

Then I watched the odometer to see as I got closer to 10 miles, around 9.8. There was a sign that really hit me in the eye – “Welcome to North Carolina.” I was driving out of the state to play golf.

The course was partially in South Carolina, mostly in North Carolina. The state markers were in place in several places on the course – you could even hit a ball off the tee and later brag “I hit one from one state into another.”

When I met my buddy/client, the first thing I said was “Hey, don’t you think it might have helped to have told me the course was in North Carolina?” Never occurred to them.

The course was under a great deal of water. There had been some 8 to 10 days of heavy rainfall, so it made some playing difficult. In fact, my client, in frustration, quit after wiffing so many and just walked the last three holes with us.

An innovation in Myrtle Beach I had never seen before was something called a “Lazy River.” Many of the hotels, motels, etc. on their neon signs advertised ‘‘A Lazy River’’. It was a channel that snaked in front or around the motel. The water was 3 to 3-1/2 feet deep and the channel was about 3 feet across. You were propelled by air jetted from the bottom of the channel in one direction. The hotel provided large inner tubes. So, in you would go with your body slung across the tube, arms akimbo on either side helping to propel you around the course. They were in constant use. Ours was between two pools right on the ocean side of the motel. It was in use from 10 a.m. to 10 p.m., it even had lights in the water. It was great fun after a hard day of reading, a dip in the ocean, running, napping, etc. to loll up the Lazy River with June and sometimes with some of the little people. Part of the fun was catching the tube ahead or behind and pushing or spinning it – you could not pass. The little people found fun in submerging and popping up in front or behind you to disrupt your ride. So now I know what the words in the song mean by “up the Lazy River with you!.”

Mike Golden and I had a tee off time around 8 a.m. at a course called “Eagle’s Nest” in North Myrtle Beach on Thursday, August 20th. We arrived on time and were paired up with two natives. They were Douglas Flowers and Irvin Whittier – just call me “Whit.” Whit was about my age, Douglas about Mike’s. Both from Aiken, South Carolina – pronounced “Aching.” Whit was prepping for a Pro-Am tournament the next day. He played well most of the time, but I noticed he quickly lost the “Whit” when he chanced to whiff one – by chortling “Dang you- Irvin!” Doug couldn’t remember why “Flowers” was a name in the news – she was allegedly the mistress of candidate Clinton, i.e., Jennifer Flowers. The game was fun. I did better than on Tuesday and even parred a few holes. There was reported to be a real “eagle’s nest” somewhere around the 8th hole, but we didn’t stop to confirm it.

The finale to Myrtle Beach was a dinner and entertainment at a place called “Dixie Stampede,” located between Myrtle Beach and North Myrtle Beach. We had reservations for Friday at 6 p.m. but were advised that the doors opened at 4 and it would be a good idea to be there at that time. We had made reservations for a ticket for Grandmom, Grandpop, Mary Lou, Sean and David on the Sunday before and this was the only open evening so we took their advice and arrived at 4 p.m. and stood in line, while a shower threatened.

The building looks like a stadium. The parking lot would match the Spectrum. The complex, program, entertainment is one of Dolly Parton’s Enterprises. We finally entered and as we headed for the Family Non-Alcoholic Saloon for entertainment prior to the show and dinner, we had to first be stopped to have our pictures taken. No memory was going to be overlooked.

The Saloon was in Western motif and the waitresses were dressed in western attire. The bar ran the entire length of the room which was some 60 to 70 feet with a mirror on the wall the entire way. The stage took up one end of the room and the entertainers entered from the floor of the saloon. There was a piano and microphone. The piano player played honky tonk and then the MC came out and started the vaudeville type acts. The waitresses soon became a chorus and then each had solo acts. In between there was a country couple with old homespun humor. Then one of the waitresses who was singing started to wander down from the stage and work her way through the crowd – singing to the gentlemen or children face to face. She rubbed the head of the gentleman next to our table and turned to us. I had on a white Panama hat with a bright band which I tipped to her. She proceeded to sit down upon my lap. The twins were aghast! It was reported that they asked grandmom if it was o.k.! She stayed a moment, rose – I tipped my hat farewell and she went off singing. The twins got another memory of their Pop-pop. I’m sure both will talk about it in the days to come.

Next was the main event. We were herded to one reserved section which was in the choir loft surrounding this huge horseshoe of a corral. At the upper end, we were sitting on the bottom of the shoe on what was the “north” side. At the top, across the stage, were two entrances, one on each side, out of which rode horsemen on beautiful animals. They were dressed in Confederate or Union uniforms. Between the entrances was a Georgian front porch where gentlemen and ladies dressed in period costumes stood and watched.

The MC led the crowd in stomping and shouting contests to see who was the best. They announced a revival of the Civil War –with the North against the South – in a series of horsemanship contests, plus even some stunts being assisted by audience participation, right down on the dirt of the corral area.

Meanwhile, the food comes, all to be eaten with the hands – 1 /2 of a roasted chicken, rib of beef, soup in a tureen, corn on the cob & roll – and for desert, an apple tart.

August 14th we packed the new car and headed South. We, were June, Mary Lou, Sean and David, and myself. The trip was to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I had never visited the place. June had camped there with her gang on several occasions some 20 years ago.

Michael Golden had been there the last two years and we decided to join him this August. The reservation in the Firebird Motel had been made back at the end of 1991.

The day was dreary. Thursday night we had to put the car roof-baggage carrier on in intermittent rain. We were off early, around 7:30 a.m. and anticipated arriving at our overnight stay in St. Petersburg, VA around 3:00 p.m. The rain come off and one as we sailed down Rt. I-95. The twins, like Pop-pop, had never been to Myrtle Beach. They enjoyed their Aunt Mary Lou showing them the new state signs. Now we are in Delaware! Now we are in Maryland!, etc. The weather really wasn’t bad for driving, it was just that we kept hoping the sun would come out the further south we went. The stopover was picked with a pool so the young guys and their aunt could begin the vacation right on the route. But it never happened – we made excellent time but the cause was lost.

We arrived outside St. Petersburg at 1:30 p.m. We debated whether to go on or stop, but the weather was wearing, so it seemed prudent to stop.

There we were in the rain in Virginia. What better excuse for a short nap. But first a walk. The rain came and went and we managed to get a period of 55 minutes that was dry. We walked away from the motel into the countryside. The motel was at an intersection of two interstate highways. Three or four motels were clustered around the intersection. I noticed the names on the mailboxes as we went down “Cleary Road” to a dead end – or an entrance to what was once the “Cleary Estate.” The names were “Abernathy,” “Fischer.” Somehow as I remember now they “seemed” southern.

Part of the motel complex had a restaurant called “Steven Kent’s.” It had several rooms. We had a corner table up on a bit of a raised platform and very cheerful waiter, who advised with great glee that David should not try squash! Despite Pop-pop’s suggestion that he might never know until he tried it – whether he liked it. He got a good deal of advice from Grandmom and Aunt Mary Lou that he definitely would not like it. David passed the squash. We had a toast – to the “finest people” I know – one I seemed to have cultivated on a trip some 20 years ago with some of the other finest people I know.

We also toasted our 11th anniverary eve. Tomorrow, the 15th of August, we would celebrate by driving the remaining 300 miles to Myrtle Beach.

Our anniversary eve repast reminded me of a meal with June and Sister Eleanore, Ann, Sr. Rosemary and Sr. Mary shortly after we began dating. As Sister Eleanore walked with June to visit the lady’s room, Sister politely inquired if she, June, was a friend of Katherine or a neighbor perhaps!

We awoke to more clouds. We roused everyone around 7:00 a.m. and were going to breakfast at the motel restaurant. But this Saturday morning in August, it was doing a booming business. We decided to move on down the road. We went about 12 miles to a truck stop. Good hearty ham and eggs place. All enjoyed the big start. Our schedule called for us to be just over the South Caroline border around 12:30 p.m. We were to meet Mike and Cindy there for lunch. They had started at 2:00 a.m. that morning and were driving straight through. “Ah youth!” As George Bernard Shaw said, “It’s a shame it’s wasted on the young.”

We again made excellent time. The guys played games with Aunt Mary Lou and she began about halfway across North Carolina to read the signs welcoming everyone to “South of the Border” – some very bad puns. “South of the Border” is a complex of souvenir shops, amusements, fast and slow food places, all done in Mexican motif. It is one mile inside the South Carolina state line.

The highlights of Myrtle Beach: The walk to find the lost “Angelo’s”; the dip in the warm Atlantic after a run on the beach; the ride into the sun rise to find a golf course – just a state away; floating down the “Lazy River” on an innertube with June right behind; Mike and I on the Eagle’s Nest Golf club with two natives; the joy of watching the twins and Kelly, and all their new friends go all day; “Dixie Stampede,” a grand finale with a great show and enjoying the food eaten with our hands.

The lost Restaurant episode occurred August 17th. We had decided to go out to dinner. All of us together, Mike, Cindy, Kelly & Matthew and our gang. Mary Lou had been working her way through the large discount book, the several flyers we had accumulated in advance and others picked up here in Myrtle Beach. They found an Italian restaurant called “Angelo’s” with a buffet all you can eat motif – just what mother ordered (or grandmother). June had an ad with a map that had a little block marking Angelo’s and it appeared to be on Kings Highway (Route 17) just where it converged with Ocean Avenue (Route 17B) at the south end of Myrtle Beach. June and I had walked down there the day or so before. So, for our walk we decided we would go find Angelo’s and check it out. We left around 2:00p.m . . . . It was hot and humid. The point where the highways converge is about 20 city blocks from our motel. The last numbered street was 29th and we were at 21st, but then there was a long curved open highway. On both sides were amusement parks, driving ranges, batting range, car racing tracks, etc. We got to the convergent point in 23 minutes, thoroughly soaked through, dripping since there was no breeze. We had not found the restaurant! We returned in about the same time, satisfied that at least we had a good walk, and went to look at the ad. Lo and behold the address was 2100 King’s Highway, i.e., one block west, up 21st Street. Admittedly, the badly scaled map made it appear that the restaurant was down near the south end of Myrtle Beach, but in its very small space it covered some 30 miles of coastline.

The dinner was great after we got Matthew to understand that his father wasn’t leaving him every time he went into the next room to get food.

8/2/92:
August begins with another run. The “Sea Isle Ten,” once the “Sea Isle Half a Marathon” and also called the “Beach Run.” The 22nd running. I ran the early years, 70 through 77, but then missed a few. Frank Allen has made them all – as noted by the local press last year. This year he just made it. He and I walked together from his in-law’s home on 37th Street. Carole, Audrey and Ted were busy at a swim meet. The Sea Isle run was three weeks early, so it kept his support group away. We arrived on the Promenade (once called the Boardwalk, but now it’s paved, so it’s a “Promenade”) about 5:15pm as the mob mushed its way on the 10 foot wide walk back behind the starting rope. We stood on the Promenade in front of the place where the McSorley Mansion once stood. The McSorley House was razed in 1990 and it is now a beautiful new twin facing the ocean.

I was edgy. I could not stop thinking about the loss of energy I felt in the five mile run just a week before. It was, I knew, the result of a virus that waylaid me for six days just a week before then. Being “edgy” or “nervous” is not unusual anytime you compete, but it was stronger than usual. I enjoyed Frank’s comment, “Just shows you’re alive.” While all this was passing through my mind and being interrupted by hellos to old acquaintances, the run began. You could tell because a yell went up and we could see some 10 to 15 yards ahead the heads were moving off down the Promenade. The first half mile was spent avoiding being stepped on or stepping on someone else, watching for holes in the Promenade and benches popping up along the sides. As I went under the Starting Banner I started my watch. I later learned that it had taken me about 45 seconds from the time the race began until I reached the “starting” line.

The crowd began to open up around 29th Street as we left the Promenade and went onto the beach. I noted at the first mile I’m running around an 8:30. It isn’t long before I realize my nervousness about maintaining a pace was well founded. At three miles I feel the sensation of overall loss of energy and begin the debate within myself as to whether to stop at five (the starting line). I resolve that by postponing the decision and when I get to the starting line the crowds, the surface, all induce me to persevere and just slow down. I do so, even without willing it. I make it, but did walk in the ninth mile from around 64th Street to 57th Street. My time was 90 minutes, but I felt little or no exhaustion at the finish and recovered rapidly. So, as we “young” runners are apt to say, there’s always another day and another run (hopefully).

8/8/92:
Back in one of the earlier runs in Sea Isle we had an incident involving my friend and fellow runner, Bill King. I enjoy recalling it was in the early 70s and Bill remembers either visiting or staying at Win and Paul’s home (the old bakery) on 45th Street.

The race then called the Sea Isle City Beach Patrol Run was run on the Boardwalk and out Landis Avenue (the main street) towards Corson’s Inlet and then back towards Townsend’s Inlet and then back to the center of Sea Isle City. We were en route back from Townsend’s Inlet the last 2 miles or so of the run. Bill was in 11th place when (as reported to me later) an automobile nearly ran over the runner ahead of him. (Traffic control was not in effect in those days. Running had not the audience it now has). The runner, whose name I never did hear, remonstrated in a verbal fashion to the occupants of the car. They, three or four hopped-up-hoods, who upon being castigated, pulled over and as the runner approached, pummelled him to the earth. They then took off in haste. Fortunately, some citizen got the license number and the police were soon in pursuit. We later learned the State Police stopped them somewhere on the Garden State Parkway and they were arrested for possession of illegal substances and DUI.

Meanwhile, back in Sea Isle City, the poor guy who was thrashed had obviously finished his run for the day – allowing our good friend Bill to step into l0th place and a medal. As you can imagine, Bill received some sly comments about “What some guys won’t do to finish in the money!”

Bill still denies that he had in any way retained the hoodlums to knock off his opposition. I believe him! – But knowing how competitive he was and is, there are those who had doubts and wonder if he could have gone that far.

Fifteen years ago, 1977, on the Fourth of July, I moved out of 734 Chandler Street for the last time and went some four blocks or so to an apartment. It was the technical end of my relationship with Katherine. It was, in fact, a culmination of a marital relationship that really had been over some ten years before.

I’ve often tried to gauge how I feel or felt about that separation and ultimate termination of the marriage. I know at the time there was a great deal of anger and fault finding – attempts to justify this “failure.” Looking back, with benefit of hindsights, sans anger, it was less a failure and more something that should never have been. Even so, it produced a great deal of happiness in the seven children and now grandchildren. Like most things, it wasn’t all bad. Shortly after the separation, I sent Katherine a note expressing the opinion that maybe it was for the best and reminding her that we did have many happy moments. Regrettably, her reply was that she could think of none. I hope it has changed for her since then, but at the time, in anger I felt vindication. Now I feel that if it was true, she had no good memories, I feel pity.

It was not meant to be. I spent so much time trying to find reasons to relieve my guilt that now it seems so ridiculous. The then current attitude was to justify – find a fault – your parents, each other, money, children, anything that would exorcise the guilt, the pain of having failed or believing you had failed. I no longer do so. I do believe we both brought very distorted, unrealistic and naive ideas of what marriage was or is, to the relationship. We could point our fingers at our parents, our church, our educational backgrounds, but even with the benefit of hindsight, it is difficult to designate a “cause.” It just was a mistake. Now, fifteen years later, I regret only the pain and no longer seek a “reason.” The happiness of my life with June blurs all “fault-finding” and makes me sigh how lucky I am! I can’t speak for Katherine, though she seems to have found peace without, for whatever reason, having a marital relationship.

I don’t wish to imply by what I’ve written that I had no faults or caused no pain – “au contrare” – the scenes I caused when intoxicated, and even sober, are not in the “Happy Memory” column. I wish, as anyone would (any sane person) they were “un”done, but even more, I wish that I could remove the hurt and scars that surely must have occurred and remain.

7/25/92:
As the year 1971 came to a close, my term as Commissioner of Records was also expiring. Each Commissioner serves at the wish of the Mayor. Mayor James H. J. Tate who appointed me could not run and he was being succeeded by Frank Rizzo. Therefore, come January 6, 1972, with the inauguration of Frank Rizzo as Mayor, and with the presumed appointment of a new Commissioner of Records, my term would be over.

However, around December 27th or 28th I received a phone call from the incoming Managing Director, Hillel Levinson. He advised that the new Mayor wanted to make “some changes in my office.” I played dumb and agreed that some changes would be welcome, like new drapes, new carpet, etc. Hillel quickly corrected me as to what “office” he was referring, i.e., Commissioner of Records. He wished, as did the new Mayor, for me to resign so a new Commissioner of Records could be appointed. I agreed to contact the then Managing Director, Fred Corletto, and submit my resignation.

I no sooner hung up the phone than it rang with the present Mayor, James H. J. Tate, on the line inquiring “Why in the hell I was resigning?” Talk about news travelling fast! I explained to “Hiz Honor” that I thought he had directed us to cooperate with the incoming administration. He apparently had forgotten those instructions, or, in his anger at the swiftness with which the new Mayor (whom he made) was ignoring him, decided he never so instructed. I agreed to call Mr. Levinson and since nothing had been submitted in writing, thought the matter would be ended.

I advised Mr. Levinson of my new decision and added that I thought Frank should call me since, after all, we served together for 4 years, he as Police Commissioner and I as Deputy Commissioner of Property and Commissioner of Records. He, Mr. Levinson, agreed and said “Frank would call!”

This all happened late in the afternoon, and as I left the office around 5:00 p.m. I purchased an Evening Bulletin as my usual companion for the ride home. Lo and behold! There was a front page story “Deputy Fire Commissioner Eccles and Commissioner of Records McSorley Resign.”

I ran into Hillel some four years later (with Arlen Spector, another non-friend of mine). It was during Frank’s re-election campaign in 1976 and reminded him I was still waiting for Frank’s call. He lamented that “Frank’s been very busy! But he’ll call.” He hasn’t yet.

6/6/92
My father was a lawyer. People in the service would surmise that since I was a lawyer, I had it made. All I had to do was leave the service and return to a thriving practice. How little did they know my father. I don’t believe he ever had, in fifty years of practice, a thing like an annual retainer. He never received a regular paycheck – except in his early years when he was an Assistant City Solicitor. He lived from case to case, estate to estate, occasional political appointment and friends. He enjoyed immensely the idea of Social Security – a regular paycheck! How he managed to feed and clothe 15 to 18 people most of the time is a real tribute to his “practice.”

6/92
I remember fondly the walk with my father from his office on Sansom Street to City Hall. As we walked along Dad would greet others as they passed – seemingly sometimes every few paces. He would say “Hello! Judge,” “Good morning Mac,” “Hello Commissioner!” Each got a short hand gesture, not quite a salute, but almost. Occasionally, we would stop and chat. I would be introduced. They would discuss politics or politicians or some recent social event. I never remember any talk about baseball or weather. Sometimes, Dad would report on the latest exploit of his famous son, Bishop Frank, or his grandchild, Jim’s latest stunt. By the time we reached City Hall we usually received a short report as to who some of the “movers and shakers” in the City government were. Dad would often add a footnote after we had passed so and so with just a “Hello!.” That was John Patrick Walsh – good defense lawyer; or that was Bill so and so a fine lawyer and councilman. He might even add how or where they had met – across the court room or across the ward room, or across the church pew.

These reveries of Dad’s walk to City Hall came back to me recently when I found myself (sans son) doing something similar. As I walked through the “wedding cake/French Architectural Masterpiece.” A I had handed out a few hellos – “Hello Jim, and where’s your 10 gallon hat?”; “Hi! Emmett- putting on a few pounds? No?.” Jim was Justice James McDermott of the Pa. Supreme Court and Emmett was Emmett Fitzpatrick, former District Attorney and now excellent defense attorney. I even gave “Ed,” I mean “Mr. Mayor,” a greeting and handshake. So, the circle has come around and I am now more than ever my father’s son.

It is also a sign of my age or survival or both. I also see signs which carry names of people I knew like “John F. Byrne Golf Course” or “Cecil Moore Avenue.” John was-my Ward Leader in the sixties and helped me get a job with the State’s -3- Attorney General. Cecil Moore was a black defense lawyer whose path cossed mine in my first murder trial in 1958.

There were 8 defendants charged with the beating death of a Korean student, In Oh Ho. It was a cause celebre. The Mayor, then Dilworth, cried at the funeral and Time Magazine carried several stories. I was the junior member of the defense team. We lost, but I persevered alone and appealed it to the Pa. Supreme Court. I hit a home run! The Court gave our defendant a new trial. As a result, Cecil Moore’s defendant, whose motion for a new trial had not yet been heard, gained a new trial. It caused Cecil to recognize the young ex-Marine. He even accidentally picked me up in his auto while driving down Broad Street one day – so we got to pat each other on the back all the way from Olney Avenue to City Hall.

Maybe knowing some of the people whose names adorn the streets or parks or the like is just a matter of survival, but to me it is a bit eerie. It is like being a part of history when you feel that you are too young to be so. It’s like going to one of the Family parties and wondering, “Where did all these old people come from?” Age is like beauty, it is in the eyes of the beholder.

The Dilworth Plaza is the area west of City Hall. It is named for former Mayor Dilworth. It was finished in the early 1970s, and remained undedicated for most of the Rizzo Administration. Rizzo had no love for Mayor Dilworth and refused to proceed with any formal dedication. It, nevertheless, was and still is, Dilworth Plaza.

I made an attempt to serve under the ex-mayor when the first School Board was created. Mayor Tate had appointed ex-Mayor Dilworth as Chairman of the Board. There was a committee of 10 to 15 citizens of various professions chaired by Dr. Nichols, a black Minister, and head of a Ministerial Group. They held interviews with prospective Board Members. On the committee was Brother Daniel Bernian, F.C.S., my former homeroom teacher at West Catholic and track moderator in my years on the track team at West. He was then the President of LaSalle College. Another member known to me was Ted Husted, who held a position in the administration of the Penn Law School when I attended.

The Committee’s task was to select some citizen members to balance with the professional school personnel. I had admired the former mayor, who came bursting in the political scene as I graduated from high school in 1947. He was to become Mayor after a stint as D.A. He led the reform of the Philadelphia government in the form of the Charter of 1951. When I returned to the area in 1958 to begin practice and took up politics he was our Mayor. He resigned in his second term in 1963 to run for Governor. He lost, but it enabled James H. J. Tate to step up from President of City Council to the Mayor’s office. Mayor Tate, in return, named him to organize and run the first Board of Education.

The interviews were held at the Bellevue, the “Grand Old Lady of Broad Street,” later remembered as the home of the Legionnaire’s Disease. The waiting was long on the day of the interview, well into the night. Finally, I was called in to a room to face some 8 to 10 people at a circular table. Dr. Nichols did most of the questioning. It had to do with my background, my education and my personal interests in the education and the educational system. I remember being asked by Dr. Nichols if I favored “integrated” education. Having had a minor in Education at St. Joseph’s and its Jesuitical integrated education of morals combined with empiricism and information, I spoke warmly about my belief in the whole man being educated – as I understood the term an “integrated” education. It was not what Dr. Nichols had in mind. He interrupted me to advise that he was referring to “Integrated” with a capital “I,” meaning race integration. I apologized and, of course, responded that I had no problem with that manner of integration either.

I received a few favorable comments from my former teacher-moderator, Brother Daniel. He advised the committee that he could vouch for my persistence in whatever I pursued – good old perservance. The Law School Assistant Dean, Ted Husted, remarked regarding the same, referring to my overcoming a first year lapse in law school to climb to the “most improved” ballplayer award in my third year. Primarily due to perservance and the old “nose to the wheel” philosphy. They – the committee – were apparently not impressed or my slip on integration let me down. Dr. Nichols became the first member after Mayor Dilworth and I think Ted served on the Board for a while.

Later, I could recall the good fortune I had in not being selected – the turmoil in education which began with integration and the population explosion did not have make the job an easy one. So I never got to serve with one of my heroes, Dilworth, whom Mayor James H. J. Tate later became unhappy with, probably because he was his own man, even as he was his own Mayor.

6/27/92
Just a few short weeks ago, around June 7th I wrote of meeting with Jim McDermott in the City Hall Court Yard. On Sunday, June 21st, Father’s Day, Jim was found dead. He was to meet with his family for Father’s Day dinner and did not answer his phone. A son went to the house and found him. There was an obituary in The Inquirer and it mentioned his penchant for Cowboy hats. The very thing I chided him about when we last met. It was another contemporary who said goodbye to this life. Another reminder of the fraility of glory and wealth – makes us want to “find tongues in trees, books in running brooks, sermons in stone and good in everything.” Another jolt to make you bend down to kiss that child and surround yourself with the aura of life.

* * *
We had a children’s week (6/20-6/27). Sean and David were houseguests along with their brother, Paul until Tuesday, Suzanne and Tom were also present with Kate and Meg. We even babysat. The highlight of the event was Pop-Pop being caught red handed eating the chocolate ice cream that Sue had returned to take for their dessert.

Twenty years ago, on April 17, 1972, I ran my first Boston Marathon. It is all a blur now.• I do remember being impressed by the crowds, the number of contestants (about 2000), the people lining the route, and the hordes around the Pru Building. I never did get any Irish Stew. I also remember not being pleased with my time, but the crowds were to blame for that. I had never before had anyone cheer me on by name. The Boston newspapers the day of the run, or the day before, print the entire list of runners with their number. So what a shock to be running along somewhere outside of Hopkinton and hear “Come on McSorley.” It got to me so much that when I reached the halfway mark at Wellesley I realized that I was running a little too much ahead of schedule. The goal of three hours then looked easy, but I had over-estimated my ability and the next half took its toll. We came in at 3 hours and 21 minutes. The after-race festivities are also lost in the swirl of the occasion. I do remember Bill King was along and did very well. I also remember the hill at Natick called “‘Heartbreak Hill” about 22 miles into the race, not only because of the climb, but hearing the portable radios along the route reporting the winner coming to the finish line. I think it was Bill Rodgers, but I wouldn’t bet the house on it.

I only ran Boston one more time, 1973. I had managed to shred my achilles tendon some three weeks before, while running in the Ceasar Rodney Half of Marathon. But I ran anyway with novacaine in the tendon. I remember consulting with a sport doctor (we didn’t call them that then, just Doctors who ran). He advised I couldn’t do any more harm to the tendon so off I went. I finished in the 3:20 range so, in anger, I decided to run the Penn Relays First Marathon, on a Tuesday morning some 10 days later, along the East River Drive. There, I managed to win a Bronze medal for 18th place at 3:12. It is still on my desk encased in glass. To think that after all the years I had run in the Relays, in high school, in college, etc., I had to wait until I was 42 to be in the money.

* * * *
May ‘92 opened with the run down Broad Street. It is an “event,” “happening” or whatever have you! Nearly 5000 men, women and children travel by foot from Central High School on Broad Street near Olney, to the JFK/Roosevelt Park area. The spectacle is outstanding! As you approach the rise near Columbia Avenue (now called Cecil B. Moore Avenue) you can see a stream of heads down the right side of Broad Street covering every inch of the street between there and City Hall. A “snake of people” wriggling down and around City Hall.

1992’s run was held on a cool and cloudy day. Bill ran along with this old man. He came to celebrate Tom’s First Communion on Saturday and couldn’t think of a better thing to do on Sunday morning than to run 10 miles with his Dad! I was suffering from a sciata problem since the run in the Penn Relays. I had hoped that after 4 or 5 miles the pain would disappear. My hopes were never obtained. By the time I reached 4 miles it had increased to such a degree that I seriously considered stopping. I tried to convince Bill he should move on and not be held back by the now limping old man. He insisted he was just along for the “workout” (some workout, no!). We slowed considerably but by 6 miles I was convinced I could finish and did so only 5 minutes slower than 1991. It is doubtful that I would have finished at all if Bill had not been along or if I had had the $1.50 subway fare. You see, the car and our clothes were at JFK, you get a free ride on the Subway up to Olney and we are expected to run back. Bill compared the finish area with,
the Philadelphia Distance run’s and found it wanting . . . it was too large an area and totally disorganized. I hobbled around, got my T-shirt (why else run?), juice, etc. and we headed back to the car accompanied by Ben . . . whom I had called Peter Pan since he looked so young. He is a former ski coach at one of the colleges in New England and now a Physical Therapist. He gave me advice regarding my pain, which I had received before, i.e., I am not stretching enough before and after running . . . so we will start again.

* * * *
May 10, 1992
Writing a paragraph a day keeps the dust away. Somebody already said this I’m sure. Writing makes for analysis, precision and thought. The trouble is, like my father used to say “Thoughts of what, and really, who cares?” I don’t have an answer. I just like the idea of putting thoughts and feelings on paper. I like to have someone read them and agree . . . even disagree. It is not easily explained. I suppose a lifetime of dictating letters, responses to other letters, petitions, briefs, etc. just can’t be tossed aside … it’s an addiction, like running. You feel good doing it and yet never really have to know why. You did it to lose weight, then to compete and now to stay in shape. Writing becomes a necessity . . . first, to make a living and then it created a habit that’s hard to put quietly to rest. Early in the practice I even wrote a weekly column “The Foxchase Lawyer.” It was a rehash of legal ideals, ideas and problems. The deadlines did just that . . . kept you in line so you had to finish one and start the next.

* * * *

May, the month of mothers. Today is Mother’s Day. My memories of mine are dim. I keep remembering when I was a teen coming down the dark corridor from the third floor (at 4116 Baltimore Avenue) and as I walked along the second floor corridor someone leaped out of the dark and scared me! It was Mom! I often wonder why does that incident stick in my craw? Most of my years with Mom were as she was fastly aging … illnesses and headaches were her constant companions. I suppose I was suprised to know she was playful and a “kidder.” I also remember fondly, in 1949 after two years in the prep seminary taking a walk on the beach in Sea Isle with her, explaining why I didn’t want to return to the seminary, and to the priesthood. She agreed and I remember her saying something like “Well, if you don’t think you could be a good priest (translation: celibate) then don’t go on . . . .” How right she was. I would have been a poor priest if I had to practice celibacy.

* * *
May 22, 1992
May is also Birthday month. Mine, Marge’s and our friend Bunny King. On my 63rd I spent the day in Avalon helping June and Mike Golden paint the walls of the condo. We finished two coats on the walls .. all the trim was done by June. I say “we” but June and Mike did most of the work. We celebrated the birthday and the painting with a dinner at the Whitebriar. It seemed appropriate, as an after thought, that I’d be painting on my birthday (the day I became me . . . some 63 years ago). I like to paint. There’s something creative about painting, the unclean becomes clean, the unpainted, painted. It was appropriate it seemed to be doing something on the day you celebrate life, renewal, change, to be making a visible change. It was an unusual way to celebrate, but a good way!

May 24, 1992
Received some greetings for the day . . . one from Win was very touching. She recalled our grandmother telling her when she arrived home, that 16th day of May, l929 . . . “You have a baby brother, Paul!’’ She just lost her Paul after fifty years of marriage. We last saw him the weekend at her granddaughter’s shower. He was slipping badly then. We learned for the first time the long ordeal that Win and her Winnie and Beth suffered in his final days (and nights). The sorrow was, and always is, mixed with some relief that at least the pain is over.

May 23, 1992
Four months ago today I “gave up” (not a good word for it) alcohol . . . in all forms. I’ve done this before and then returned, usually a bit worse than before. Something like the evil spirit that is removed and then returns to the house and is even worse. It seemed like a major decision. To help me live up to the commitment this time I made another decision with the aid of counseling, to join AA. The group is composed only of lawyers . . . all alcoholics and ex-addicts. I has been an enjoyable and encouraging experience. It is something I should have done long ago. lt is interesting that the only time I have the urge for a beer is in my dreams and then I struggle with myself because I know I shouldn’t be doing it. The ‘‘major” part of the decision seems a bit exaggerated, it certainly doesn’t feel like a major one. It is something I feel now that I should have and could have done without the pain being caused to make me see it. Even at 63 you live and learn (sometimes!).