A Missed Funeral

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One evening after dinner in early December, I was called to Father Cassian’s room. This did not seem unusual since his room was right next to mine, and we sometimes discussed philosophy and history. He seemed in a more serious mood than usual. After very brief small talk, he said he had some bad news. My grandmother had died earlier that day and would be buried later that week.

The news was not particularly surprising. She had been ill for years and had been taking medication for a heart condition, although she had never been hospitalized. I remembered her house as the first place I had lived. My father was in the navy during World War II when I was born. My mother and I lived with my grandparents while my father was overseas. When my father came home, my mother tried to introduce us. Instead of going to him, I ran to the picture of my father, insisting that this was my father rather than the live man before me.

I thought for a long time that I had two mothers.  I did not understand when my father returned from the war and our family moved to our own house. My mother loved me, but also set limits. My grandmother just loved me. After we moved, we frequently visited my grandparents, and I often stayed with them for part of the summer.

My grandmother was a serene person. She always spoke quietly and had a kind word for everyone. Even though I was the third grandchild, I felt special to her. I was the only one who lived with her.  She often called me a “minx.”  I was particularly fond of hiding the agitator cap from her washing machine. Although she would try to scold me, she could not hold back her laugh very long and would soon be well into stories about my uncles’ antics. We would then be off to the cellar to see where the cap may have been “lost.” When I grew older, we also had our secret beer in the kitchen after all the relatives had been served their drinks. My grandmother was present at all the major events of my life.  I remembered pictures of her at my baptism, first communion, and confirmation. Her presence was not prominent, but quietly reassuring.

One of my last memories of her was at my grandfather’s funeral. He had been suffering from a heart condition, but insisted on shoveling snow and had died suddenly in the process. Although sad on this occasion, my grandmother was filled with the good memories of her years with him. She let him go quietly as she had lived with him in peace.

I had not seen my grandmother for over a year, since entering the novitiate, and she was too ill to travel to my Profession. Still, I always thought of her as being there for me. It was hard to imagine her as gone. My ultimate refuge was no more.

Funerals in our family had always been a time of family gathering and mutual support. Everyone dropped work, school or other commitments to come together to comfort each other. There were family stories about rooms full of sleeping children, patrolled by an aunt/nun, while the adults talked into the night.

My first thought at hearing about my grandmother’s death was of being together with my family in grief and comfort. They would all share their memories of my grandmother. Others would hear of my shared beer in the kitchen and I would hear of their experiences of closeness with her.

I told Father Cassian I would like to go to her funeral. He told me the policy was that students were only allowed to attend funerals of immediate family members. I told him my grandmother was like my mother and I had lived with her until I was three.  He told me the finances of the Order did not allow for such travel. I said I was sure my family would be willing to pay my travel expenses. Father Cassian reminded me that, since my vows, the Order was now my family and I could not go to the funeral.

I left his room in shock, not expecting this turn of events. I went to my room and wept in desolation. I was convinced I should be at the funeral. I had no money, even to call my family.  I considered hitchhiking the several hundred miles from West Springfield to Dunkirk and thought I could get to the funeral on time.

I was angry at Father Cassian and thought he lacked understanding. Life suddenly seemed unfair. How could anyone keep me from being with my family to say good-bye to my grandmother? As my anger subsided, I realized I had reached a major crisis point. I knew I needed to make a choice between my family and the monastic life I had worked so long to reach. I also knew, if I went to the funeral, I would not come back to the monastery.

I walked for hours in the monastery garden, weighing the possibilities. I did not feel I could turn to anyone to help me with the decision, even Gerry and John. The choices were clear. The implications were not. The mystique of the monastic life weighed against my love for my grandmother. No matter what I decided, part of me would die.

My first adult decision was to accept the director’s authority and to stay at the monastery, rather than attending the funeral. But I felt I was betraying my grandmother and she was being ripped from me rather than going quietly, as was the custom in our family.

At Mass on the morning of the funeral, all of the monks were asked to pray for me, my grandmother and our family. Although this was some comfort, the loneliness was not lessened much. The bonds of the religious community were too new to reassure me. I remained confused and uncertain of my decision. It was now too late to attend the funeral.

Excerpt from my book. Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook format.

Sixth Seminary Reflection

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We had made it through stage two of our training. In the space of one year we had completed our “basic training” in the religious life and were ready to resume our formal education. As with military basic training, I felt we were thrown into the daily schedule with little preparation. We had no way of knowing what to expect. Some of us floundered for a while before adjusting, and some left, finding the rigors of religious life too overwhelming.

Holy Cross had isolated us from the rest of the world, with the exception of visits from our families and our visits home for Christmas and summer vacation. The novitiate isolated us even further. No family visits were allowed during our year in Pittsburgh. We did get out for walks on occasion and did have one visit to the Passionist Nuns, but otherwise seldom interacted with anyone not part of the monastic community.

We were introduced into religious life in a “hot house” environment, protected from all outside influences, seen as shielding us from the distractions of the outside world. I found the isolation difficult at times and would have preferred to compare ideas and consider things in their context.

I did gain a good understanding of the vows we took at the end of the novitiate.  I knew what I was getting into and accepted it at face value. The life we were to live appeared quite strict, although we knew there would be some modifications once we resumed our formal course of study.

Although never stated directly, I had a sense from Father Augustine Paul that there were changes in the wind.  Our way of life would probably be updated from the nineteenth to the twentieth century. I was optimistic about the possible changes.

It was my opinion that the most difficult part of our training was behind us. I was looking forward to learning about philosophy. I had little idea what the classes would be like but hoped to learn about the various philosophers through the ages and read what they had to say. I was ready for the next step and anxious to get on with our training. I felt lighthearted and looking forward to our adventures and the new learning which awaited us. 

Excerpt from my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook format.

Fifth Seminary Reflection

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It seemed strange to have the first phase of my seminary days drawing to a close. It was sometimes hard to imagine that I had been here for almost six years and was about ready for new adventures.  I had come to the seminary on the verge of adolescence. My decision to enter the seminary had been made as a child. Looking back on it, I realized I did not have the maturity to make an informed decision.  However I had made it and had stuck with it for six years. I had four years of high school and two years of college behind me. Despite having received an associate’s degree, I still did not feel much like a college student. I thought I had received a fairly good education but often felt that there were parts of my life missing. 

Most of us, myself included, were still rather juvenile in our humor, outlook on life and attitude about girls.  Sometimes I thought we were a little stunted by being protected from the outside world and not having to face life on our own terms or to have to rely on our own decisions in order to make it in life.  Not having lived on the outside since eighth grade, it was hard to know what I had missed and how I would be different if I had followed a different course in my life.

When I asked my superiors about this, I was told that, in the seminary, everything was taken care of for us so we could concentrate on our spiritual development. I still had some trouble with the need to be protected and sometimes wanted a chance to prove myself on my own terms.

We would be moving from the seminary to the monastery.  I had been in the monastery in downtown Dunkirk to help with services and to visit my Uncle Bob when he was Rector of St. Mary’s Monastery. This was before he was selected to be a Provincial Consultor in Union City, New Jersey. The monastery always seemed to me very dark and quiet, the corridors smelling of paste wax and gleaming slightly from light reflected through stained glass windows.

I was usually there early in the morning and did not see much activity other than Mass being said in various small chapels. It seemed odd not to have a congregation, but to serve at my uncle’s Mass alone in a side chapel.  We did not talk much about life in the monastery, although it would have been a good chance for me to do so. 

I imagined the monastery was probably not too different from the seminary except that visitors were seldom allowed and we would not be allowed to go home for Christmas or summer vacation until we were ordained seven years later. It was a mysterious but somehow also a romantic adventure awaiting us. We would finally be experiencing the true religious life we had signed up for six years ago. I felt as ready as I could be to move on to the next phase of my life.

Excerpt from my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available from Amazon in paperback and ebook format.

My Grandfather’s Funeral

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This post is not one of the seminary reflections but took place here chronologically.

The school year proceeded about the same as the first one had. Advent arrived with preparation for Christmas.  In the last week before Christmas, I was summoned for a phone call, not usually a good sign.  My mother was on the phone and told me that my grandfather, her father, had died suddenly that morning. He had a heart condition and was taking nitroglycerine tablets. He decided to go out to shovel some snow and had a heart attack.  He was not able to get back inside for his pills and had died suddenly on the way into the house.

My parents were about to leave for Dunkirk and had arranged to pick me up after supper to go to the funeral home. I was stunned. All four of my grandparents had been alive up to then and I had never experienced the death of a close relative.

I had lived with him and my grandmother and mother while my father was away in World War II. I had little recollection of those early days except for the trains.  We would hear a train whistle in the distance, and from its direction could tell if it was the New York Central, running along Lake Erie or The Nickel Plate which stopped at the end of Park Avenue, about half a block from my grandparents’ house. My grandfather  and I would bundle into the car, rush down to the tracks and watch freight trains pass or passenger trains stop briefly to load or unload passengers or packages. I especially liked to watch the train start up again.  A billow of smoke rose from the smoke stack and the train let out a single chug while the wheels moved only slightly.  After several of these starts, the train began its forward movement and was underway.  We would also go to the other end of Park Avenue  to the dock to watch the fishing boats come and go.

When I was older and we had moved to Rochester, I would sometimes stay with my grandparents for a week during the summer. I would go with my grandfather to his drug store, watch him sort pills and go down to the cellar with him for supplies.  I would also help sweep the floors and dust candy cases. I wished he had a soda fountain like some drug stores did at the time. His candy counter had jars of various penny candy.  The simplest, but in my eyes, the most exotic, was a jar of rock candy.  I knew it was just sugar and water, but somehow it fascinated me.  When it was time to close up the store for the day, he would always ask me if I wanted to pick out some candy before we left, and I always picked out the rock candy, a band of clear crystal sugar on a string.

I recalled these memories on the way to the funeral home.  He had been retired for about five years and had enjoyed every day of his retirement as he had his earlier life. It was hard to find a parking place. He was loved by everyone and it seemed everyone had come to say good bye.

Inside were my uncles, aunts, cousins and people I had seen coming and going at my grandparents’ house. Some I knew and some I did not. Near the casket sat my grandmother, uncharacteristically quiet and sad.  She was usually the one making sure everyone had what they needed.  This time everyone was hovering over her in case there was something she needed.

When I finally reached her, we stood and hugged each other for quite a while, sharing our tears for my lost grandfather and her lost husband.  Despite all the people there, it was as if we were alone in her kitchen for a few moments with no one around.

My tears continued as I approached to kneel before his casket surrounded by what seemed like endless  flowers.  He looked like himself although a little powdery.  I had never seen him that still.  He was always telling a story or laughing at someone else’s story.  Even when asleep in his chair he always snored to let us know he was still with us in his own way.

Later in the evening at my grandmother’s house, everyone told stories about my grandfather and his observations about life. He did not have the literary gifts of Samuel Clemens, or at least never showed them if he did.  However he did have a quick wit and knack for comical observation of human foibles which kept us all entertained. 

Someone wondered whether my grandfather had ever become angry in his life.  Everyone stopped to think but had trouble coming up with anything. My Aunt Helen did recall once when he had told my uncles Dick and Charlie to stop running through the house.  When they kept it up, he got out of his chair to chase them, but then broke into his usual laughter, realizing he could not catch them anyway.  That seems to have been the closest he ever came to being angry.

Despite his placid nature, he must have been quite determined. He was born one of eight children to immigrant Irish parents who originally came to the coal fields in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania.  They made their way to Belfast, New York, building a farm house on top of a rocky hill where it was difficult to walk.  I could not imagine how they ever broke the soil to grow anything. I think they had mostly cows.

My grandfather somehow made his way to the University of Buffalo Pharmacy School from which he graduated. He worked in a drug store in Niagara Falls where he met my grandmother and eventually bought a drug store in Dunkirk.  He provided well for my grandmother and their six children. I think the best thing he left them was his sense of humor and ability to manage whatever came his way in life without the smallest complaint.

I was grateful that I had a chance to be with him, especially on the afternoons in his drug store.  I never really knew what he thought.  I don’t know whether he worried about his health or about his family, what he thought about current events or whether there was anyone in the world he did not like.  He never spoke ill of anyone.  He did see foibles, his own as well as everyone else’s, and had a way of seeing their comical side, his included, without ever being critical of anyone.

I went to the funeral the next day, Christmas Eve.  My Uncle Dick, my grandfather’s second son said the funeral mass solemnly and with more emotional control that I could imagine, especially knowing we were saying good-bye to a family treasure. I served as an altar boy with my brother and had to fight back tears several times during the Mass. At the cemetery, my uncle repeated the words from the last hymn at church, “In Paradisum, Deducant Te Angeli”- May the Angels lead you into Paradise. I no longer had control of my tears.  

We had dinner at Rusch’s Restaurant, owned by my father’s cousins, and returned to my grandparents’ house where Christmas Eve had lost its charm for me.  I did have my traditional beer with my grandmother in the kitchen.  Neither of us could think of anything to say.  After we were done, we hugged and shared our tears for our mutual loss. Later we opened our presents as usual in the front parlor, but no one sat in my grandfather’s chair.  I glanced at it from time to time, always saddened by its emptiness.

I returned to the seminary for collation although I supposed I did not have to. I could have stayed to eat with my relatives the many foods left by neighbors and friends. Since it was Advent and the eve of a feast day, it was not yet time to celebrate Christmas.  This collation consisted of hard boiled eggs, baked beans, string beans, bread and butter with milk to drink and fruit cocktail for dessert. I decided I had made the wrong choice and should have stayed with my relatives for dinner.  Before eating, Father Brendan asked everyone to keep my grandfather, me and our family in their prayers.  My tears returned and I decided I was not very hungry anyway.

The midnight Christmas Mass was again quite a production.  Afterwards, I went back to my grandmother’s where she was cooking bacon and eggs as if nothing had happened, although I knew that inside, things were not the same for her and never would be.

The next night I was back at the seminary, and most of the week managed to get lost in the Christmas week festivities and seemingly endless games of euchre and hearts. Classes were soon back in full swing and I was back to reading for class when I had to and reading war novels when I had the chance. 

From my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available in paperback or digital format from Amazon

Second Seminary Reflection

Mass

The Seminary introduced new ways of doing things. The biggest difference was the degree to which our time was scheduled compared to life at home. As time went on, I felt further removed from the outside world. Other than family visitors, we seldom encountered anyone who did not live in the seminary. There were no intrusions from TV, radio or magazines. We were told the reason for these restrictions was to keep us from being distracted from seminary life. I found the isolation difficult at times. I had always been curious about everything throughout my life. My parents had always encouraged my curiosity other than when I took things apart which I could not put back together. I was suddenly confined to a very limited world. I found it hard, but there were enough experiences, especially in sports to keep me interested.   

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This is a selection from my book, my book, Young Man of the Cloth, available at Amazon in paperback and digital format.

The Portable

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I survived my two-part fourth grade despite my move in the middle of the school year from Rainier Street to Maiden Lane and continued to struggle toward producing any intelligible writing with pen and ink. In fifth grade, the attempt to switch me to right-handed penmanship was abandoned.  I was allowed to return to left-handed writing and made the switch back despite the awkwardness of using a quill pen.

Most of the classrooms were in a long building with two rows stretching back from Maiden Lane and ending with kindergarten in the back next to the nuns’ convent. The only exception was fifth grade which for some reason was in a separate building across the parking lot from the rest of the school. Why it was called the portable remained a mystery to me. It was a much older building than the rest of the school and contained two classrooms and a meeting room. There were no wheels involved, so why was it portable?

I finally met most of my classmates although only two of them lived near me. I played basketball with other boys during recess and after school. I also started taking trumpet lessons and joined the band once I was ready.

Fifth grade did not seem much different from fourth grade other than being removed from the rest of the school. The school routine began again with nothing much different in the classroom. I remember the large clock on the wall ticking once a minute as the time crawled along, at least for me.

Most of us moved along, being promoted every year to the next grade. There was one girl who was in fifth grade when I was in fourth grade. She was in fifth grade at the same time I was. She remained in fifth grade when I moved back to the main part of the school for sixth grade. I lost track of her but sometimes wondered if she was in fifth grade permanently.

In the afternoon, we often had English class which consisted of a story read by students chosen to read that day. One day the story was about a boy and a girl. Rose was chosen to read the girl part and I was assigned the boy part. I knew Rose by name but did not know anything else about her. The reading progressed without incident. After school, I passed up a basketball game and approached Rose. We talked a little about ourselves, our families and our interests. Then I walked her home.

She had a large family but no one was home when we got there. Her parents both worked and her brothers and sisters were hardly ever home after school. We had the house to ourselves, got a drink of pop and sat in her living room to talk about whatever came to mind.

We enjoyed being alone with each other, especially when we had her house to ourselves. We never ran out of things to talk about although I have no recollection now of what the topics might have been. Eventually I met her family and she met mine. We did not spend all of our time together but I often went to her house to talk about whatever was on our minds. Being in fifth grade seemed rather young to have a girlfriend. None of my friends had one. Still, I always looked forward to spending time with Rose. We listened to each other and both loved sharing our interests and observations about life.

We remained good friends for the rest of our school days at St. Charles and both of us felt grateful to have each other in our lives. In case you are wondering, there was nothing sexual in our relationship. We just enjoyed spending time with each other and sharing our observations about life. I eventually became involved in other activities and we stopped spending quite so much time with each other. I will talk more about Rose when I reach my eighth grade adventures.

My Two Aunts

When I lived in Dunkirk as a young child and when I later returned to Dunkirk to visit, one of my favorite memories was riding in the convertibles of two aunts. My Aunt Philly was my father’s youngest sister. She was still single in early years. It seemed to me that every time she went out in her convertible for whatever reason, she made a point of taking me with her. Sometimes we had no destination but just rode around town or out in the country. I took advantage of the opportunity every chance I could.

My other aunt, Teresa, was not really my aunt. She lived across the street from my grandparents and felt like part of the family. Once I found a picture in a photo album of a young woman who looked a lot like Teresa but was dressed in a nun’s costume. I learned that she had been a nun for a short time but then decided that life was not for her and she returned home.

It seemed that I spent as much time with her in her convertible as I did with my Aunt Philly in hers. I remember going to jewelry shops with Teresa to look at engagement and wedding rings. I learned that she had firm plans to marry my Uncle Dick when he got back from the army. I never heard my uncle talk about marrying her.

Then I discovered that my uncle had decided to become a priest and was soon in the seminary. I don’t remember talking with Teresa about the marriage which was not about to happen. She eventually married someone else. I still rode with her in her car until I got older but there were no more visits to jewelry stores.

I have never forgotten my early days and jaunts around town and the countryside with my two aunts.

The Farm in Belfast and the Monitor

I was not sure where the Belfast farm was when I was young but my family ended up there at least once during every summer. My great-grandparents immigrated from County Mayo in Ireland and ended up in

Wilkes Barre, Pennsylvania. At some point they moved to the top of a hill just south of the Town of Belfast New York. To get there, we turned off of the main road and then into an almost imperceptible driveway and rode across a questionable bridge spanning a small creek. Further up and atop a hill lay the farm.

There was a farm house, but no indoor water, electricity or plumbing. A hand pump provided any water we needed. The outhouse lay a little farther away and down the hill a little. A barn, looking to be on its last legs, had a loft with hay but no sign of life. It provided us with a giant playroom when we were not out looking for wild berries.

The ground was mostly rocks and did not seem suitable for any kind of crops. There were plenty of weeds. I wondered what kind of farming took place. I thought of cows and other livestock as the only possibilities. No one lived there in the years we came to visit and had not for some time. Many of my mother’s relatives including my uncles, aunts and cousins came to the gatherings. The adults mainly visited and the kids made good use of the farm, especially the barn.

The adults wished to be able to visit without worrying about their kids wandering off into the woods. Instructions not to wander off were fortified by a family myth. There was said to be a nebulous creature living in the woods known as the Monitor. I was not clear what kind of creature this was but it was known to lurk in the woods and came to life at night. Strange noises in the woods at night were attributed to the monitor. This myth helped keep the younger children close to the farmhouse, especially as daylight began to fade. Stories about the Monitor entertained the older children.

At night, everyone found space anywhere they could in the house and made the best of it. Breakfast was cooked on the wood stove and no one went hungry. Some left early the next morning and others lingered until mid-day before returning home.  More about the Monitor later.

Meet my Grandparents

 All of my great-grandparents immigrated from Europe. My mother’s grandparents immigrated from Ireland and Germany. My other grandparents were of German extraction. I feel fortunate that all of my grandparents were alive when I was born. Let me tell you a little about them.

My paternal grandfather worked in the Dunkirk locomotive factory and retired with great difficulty hearing, related to the noise in the factory. I saw him as stern once I learned what the word meant. Mostly I saw him as presiding over his family from his armchair in the living room. He could be generous but was also quite opinionated.

My paternal grandmother was diabetic and her breath seemed sour. She had everyone’s best interest in mind but had strict opinions which did not seem to be open for discussion. One example was her view that fresh-baked bread, coffee cake should not be eaten right out of the oven but should sit overnight first despite their captivating aroma.

I remember once when I was still young and they set out on a trip to visit each of their children and their families. They stayed at each house long enough for my grandfather to build a sandbox for the children and for my grandmother to knit slippers for each child.

My maternal grandfather was born in the hills just south of Belfast, NY on a farm full of fossil rocks. I wondered how anything could grow there. He made his way to college and ended up as a druggist. He was very kind and understanding. At his funeral, someone wondered if he had ever been angry. One of my relatives recalled a time when one of my uncles was chasing another through the house. He got out of his chair meaning to catch them and remind them of the house rules. Then he sat back down laughing, realizing he could not catch them.

My maternal grandmother acted like everyone’s mother. She made everyone she met feel loved. For some reason, she did not want to drink alcohol in the sight of company. She would get a beer from the refrigerator, close the kitchen door and enjoy her drink I private. Well, almost in private. When I visited her house, even as a young child, she invited me into the kitchen and offered me a sip of her beer.

All of my grandparents lived at least until I reached my teens. I will address their deaths later.

Meeting My Father

I was told that I met my father in Miami when he was in the Navy during World War II. Yet I had no recollection of Miami. However I did have an image in my head of the Capitol building in Washington at night. I had no idea where this came from. Much later in life I was at a professional conference in Washington and was near the train station one night. I saw the Capitol which matched the image in my mind. I asked my mother about this. She told me that she took me to Miami by train when I was about two. We switched trains in Washington at nighttime. Aha!

When I was about three, a man came to my grandmother’s door with a seabag in tow. My mother told me that this was my father. Confused, I ran to the parlor table and pointed to the picture of a sailor and said this was my father. I learned to accept him and had a great deal of fun with him in my early years especially at the beach on Lake Erie on the northern end of Dunkirk where I first lived with my mother and grandparents.

Around that time, another man arrived at the door whom I learned was my Uncle Dick who had been in the army infantry serving in Europe. When I asked him what he did in the army, he told me that his group rode in the the back of a truck. From time to time they got off the truck and shot their rifles. Then they got back on the truck and went to another spot. That was his whole story. He had a German luger as a souvenir but I never learned how it came to be in his possession He had a secret that I did not know about until his funeral. We will get to that.