Frankie

Today we drove to Providence and back with Mimi and Tim to be at Bern's uncle Frankie's 90th birthday party. Then drove to the train station to send Tim and Mimi back to New York and us back to Cheshire. A great day. A very great day.

Frank is one of the most gracious, generous, friendly men you'd ever meet. And he has a great, great sense of humor. And he is sharp as a tack, correcting details for his daughter, Francis and son, Anthony when they were honoring him.

Frank is much more computer literate than I will ever be. He is on the Internet about as much as he is in dialysis each week--which is quite a lot. And physically, if you can over look  his kidney problems, he is fine except for the neuropothy in his legs that makes it hard for him to dance, which Fran invited him to do, but he can walk with a cane.

I've known Frank as long as I've known Bern--since I was 17--and I'm older than than now.

Here's something interesting that will tell you something about Frank--two of his doctors, one of his nurses and the dietician and social worker from the dialysis unit came to the surprise party. I don't know any of the medical people I deal with who would come to a party for me! Everyone falls in love with Frank, and for good reason.

He was Bern's father's youngest brother. Born in this country, his parents--Bern's grandparents--were from Bari, Italy. Both Dan, my father-in-law, and Pete, were Italian born. Frank was born here and though he speaks and writes and reads Italian fluently, he has a West Virginia accent and 'Americanized' in ways his older brothers never seemed to.

He is charming, almost courtly in manner and when you talk to him you have the feeling that he thinks you're the only person in the world with something of interest to say. My wife loves him dearly, as do I, as do most everyone who ever met him. He is a man without enemies. A man who never met a stranger. A man who, in the 1950's in the coalfields of West Virginia, objected to the separate showers for black and white miners.

He's always been amazing to me. And equally amazing was his Croatian wife, Annie, who died 7 years ago. Frank's children thought he would fall apart since Annie did everything--laundry, cooking, even balancing the check book even though Frank was an accountant for US Steel. But he didn't fall apart. He learned to do all those things and helped everyone who loved Annie to get through their grief....

There is so much to tell him about him that I don't have space or time. I'll just use a story Tony told when talking about them. In 1959, when Tony was 9, a steel strike shut down the coal mines just before Christmas and things were lean all around. Frank took Anthony with him to Welch, the only place in McDowell Country that passed for a 'town'--6000 people and the county seat. Fran went a day or two before Christmas when he usually did last minute shopping, but he didn't do any shopping that day. Instead he went to the bank and exchanged paper money for silver dollars and filled his pockets. Then he and Tony walked through town, meeting person after person who they knew, and Frank gave all the children they stopped to talk to a silver dollar for Christmas instead of buying gifts for his family. The coal miners were out of work, but Frank was management and still had his job.

When they got back to the car, Frank had one silver dollar left and gave it to Tony, telling him, "what goes around, comes around...."

Tony kept that silver dollar for over 50 years and had it framed with the words, "What goes around, comes around" and gave it back to his father.

No dry eye in the house. I'm getting that feeling in the back of the throat you get before you weep just writing about it.

That generous, compassionate, good and true man, has something now to remind him that is it True with a capital T that 'what goes around, comes around....'

Happy birthday, Frank. And as many more as you can have.....

Plumb was not true in 1850

So, our cabinets are almost in, but not without issues. Our house was built in 1850 when plumb was not yet true and 90 degree angles did not yet exist and floors were never level.

The carpenter had to call the contractor--and Jon, who was also the contractor who painted our house and saved us thousands of dollars by talking me out of two coats--came and consulted with the carpenter and is committed to making the kitchen look right in the end.

Today I was held captive in my own bedroom by a Puli named Bela. Our dog only likes 12 human beings (making him a bit like Jesus as I think about it.) He loves Bern and me and Mimi and Tim and Josh and Cathy and the three granddaughters (Morgan, Emma and Tegan) and our friends John, Sherry and Jack. Anyone else he would gladly bite. So when there are people working in the house, I have to stay with him in our bedroom. I read a book on Tuesday and another on Wednesday and one and a half today. I was glad to read so much, but it feels like prison to be in a room with a Puli who sometimes is content to lay on the bed with me and sometimes barks at the door incessantly until I throw my book at him or give him a treat.

At this point it looks like the kitchen sink won't be back until next Thursday at the earliest. They have to come and install the appliances and take moldings for the counter and sink and like that. Never mind that nothing is plumb or straight or on line.

But the cabinets and drawers that are in close with just a push and silently. Some marvel of doors and drawers makes them close so wondrously it makes my heart leap within me. Especially since a whole host of doors in our cabinets were held shut by rubber bands before and some of the drawers required all you strength to open and close. Heaven.

But I urge you to ponder this: notice how often you use your kitchen sink and the garbage disposal there. Just notice and ponder that for the next week while we don't have either. And realize how altered you life would be. This is a valuable exercise that will put you in touch with how blessed and fortunate you are to have a kitchen sink and a garbage disposal when much of the world can only drream--and probably can't--about having those marvels that we take for granted.

I look forward to taking them for granted again soon.....

Cheshire is going Green and I'm pissed off...

We got this new recycling bin, larger than a trash can and since the town way transitioning they picked up no recycle stuff or garbage during the week of Thanksgiving. Which, for us, meant two weeks before a pickup.

We recycle like it's a religion. Now the town is only picking up recycling stuff every two weeks. We normally, in a week have two little bins and lots of stuff in blue recycling bags. We'll fill the new big bin in a week.

Today I put out one of our little bins to see if they'd take it along with our new big bin. They did take the stuff in it but they also took the little blue bin, thinking, I imagine, we were turning it in.

They should pick up trash every two weeks and recycle stuff every week instead of the other way around. I didn't tell you yet that I put half of a big bin worth of recycle stuff in our neighbor's big bin since she's away.

Here's the nightmare, we want to recycle and do, but if the town only collects it every two weeks I'll be putting stuff in neighbor's bins or in our trash....Our trash can was full today, but considering trash hadn't been picked up for two weeks and Thanksgiving happened....well, this whole thing isn't working for me and I'm pissed off.

The Pancreas and the Kitchen Sink

Sorry to be away so long--Thanksgiving happened and the Pancreas stuff and the Kitchen sink and all--so I haven't been faithful to my blog. Again, sorry.

Thanksgiving was glorious. Our children and their partners and our three grand-daughters and John, our great friend, and Hanna who we've know forever. It was just great and profound and wondrous. Maybe I'll write about it sometime.

Then there is Bern's Pancreas. There's a growth on it--medical people seem to use 'cyst' and 'tumor' as synonyms when they talk about it. Found by accident when Bern had siaticia and thought she had a kidney stone.

Disagreement between doctors and radiologists in two opinions. And then, the second, more hopeful opinion doctor did a needle biopsy yesterday at Yale-New Haven Hospital to hopefully show that the growth (no matter what you call it) is benign and harmless. All went well except Bern, in the operating room, had a conflict with the anestesiologist, that, if we had it on tape would go viral on UTube.

(An aside here--my spell check has gone haywire and I am not in control of the correct spelling of anything right now. OK?)

So, it was a day trip to New Haven. We arrived at 12:30 and didn't start back to Cheshire until 6:15 or so. I wandered around, trying to find a place where I could smoke and since blocks of New Haven are property of YNHH and their signs are unrelenting and harsh--you can't even smoke on the sidewalks--the sidewalks for Christ's sake--anywhere on the five or six square blocks of the campus that is the hospital.

(Sometimes, when people are giving me grief about why I smoke, I tell them, "I am a Priest of the Lord, and as a priest I stand always with the oppressed. And who, in our society, are more oppressed than smokers?)

 So Bern had this ridiculous argument in the procedure room with the anestiseologist about how she was going to put to sleep for the procedure. The Dr. had been clear it would be that stuff Michael Jackson used to go to sleep and not general anesthesia. But the anestiseologist, insisted she was in charge. Bern, never someone to let someone she disagrees with 'be in charge', got in the 'go to sleep' doctor's face.

As Bern tells it, she said to the anestiseologist that she would not have two tubes down her throat since the procedure required a tube down her throat.

The anestiseologist said, "But they go to different places...."

And Bern replied, "But they enter in the same place...."

Apparently there was much back and forth and Bern's doctor came in and held Bern's hand and the anestiseologist finally was overruled by her supervisor and Bern got what she wanted. But it only goes to show, you have to 'manage' your health care.

I was to have a biopsy on something or other in my bladder my urologist did not understand and when I was moved to the operating table from the gurney, the anestiseoligist in charge saw a throat lozenge wax covering on the gurney.

"Did you eat that?" she asked harshly.

"No," I said, "I sucked on it because I was coughing."

She called off the proceedure.

My doctor told her is was "bullshit" and "crazy" but anestiseoligists have absolute, almost god-like powers.

I went upstairs and had the procedure in my urologist's office with a local. I would have preferred being asleep, I assure you, but the cough drop didn't make it a bad experience..

Besides all that, they tore out our kitchen today. We have no kitchen sink for several days. You never know how valuable a kitchen sink is until you don't have one.

I encourage you to join me in pondering the remarkable, incredible, life-giving characteristics of a kitchen sink.

Just imagine, if you can, how much you don't even realize you need it. Astonishing, I assure you, to have no kitchen sink....

So it begins....

Mimi arrived on the 6 pm train from Grand Central. Life got brighter and more wondrous when I picked her up.

The dog follows her around instead of me. Everyone is blessed by Mimi.

Cathy and the girls and Sumi, the dog, leave Baltimore tomorrow morning--the earlier the better think. We've talked to the girls and they are 'So Excited!!!' About coming to Connecticut. To them it seems like a wonderland.

Josh will come on the train after work--maybe here by 9 or so tomorrow night.

Tim comes on Thanksgiving on Amtrak. John will pick him up and then pick up Hanna and the the 11 of us will have Thanksgiving together.

Not much better than that.

May your thanksgiving be as rich and wondrous as ours.

Rag Socks and AA batteries

As I get older, I notice some things. One is that I'm not as fast on the uptake as I used to be. The other is that I'm rapidly going out of style.

The latter first, and then the former.

I exclusively wear rag socks. That's what I call them. They are thick and made of cotton with some wool blend. They are the kind of socks you would need for boots--but there is this, they have no elastic on the top. They are, in that way, distinct from 'crew socks'. I threw away all my socks, two drawers worth, that were not rag socks. I have decided, in my dotage, to wear only rag socks. I wear no socks much of the year and so, when I do wear socks, I should wear what I like. That's my stand and I'm sticking to it.

So, Saturday, I went out looking for rag socks. I went to Kohl's, Bob's and finally, Marshall's in Hamden. No rag socks whatsoever in Kohl's. I even asked someone who worked there if there were rag socks and she, 45 years younger than me if a day, stared at me like I'd asked if the vampire star ship was landing soon....

In Bob's, I found a few rag socks--what I call them--but they were $10 a pair. I was also looking for boxer shorts. I like boxer shorts with a bit of color and style. The ones at Kohl's and Bob's were like $22 a pair.

So, I went to Marshall's in Hamden. If you like Marshall's, you need to go to Hamden. It's like a Marshall's super-store. I found lots of what I call rag socks and lots of boxer shorts that were colorful and fun and all that was about half what it was anywhere else.

I bought 12 pairs of rag socks and 12 pairs of boxer shorts. I probably should have bought more since I am obviously going out of style at a sustained rate....

Then, the other night, I was writing a blog about Ben's funeral when my computer seemed to seize up and I couldn't type. I tried everything my small techno-brain told me and nothing worked. So I played 15 hands or so of hearts, never realizing I could play hearts with my mouse and never need the keyboard.

The next day I went on line and looked at stuff on AOL--which I love and everyone I know tells me is trash, just to let you know how out of style I am....Tried to finish the blog and couldn't type and then played 21 or so hands of hearts--something I do too much in my dotage...I love hearts. Then, about 17 hours after my keyboard stopped working, I (slow on the uptake) pondered if my keyboard needed four new AA batteries.

Lo and behold, that was it....17 hours isn't a terribly long time. But it is a long time to keep trying to type on a battery inhibited keyboard....Oh, well. So much for that. So it goes....

His name was Ben

I officiated at a funeral today. That's not a new experience for me. In my 21 years at St. John's in Waterbury, I averaged a tad over 40 funerals a year. All told, I'm closing in on 1000 funerals. Not the kind of achievement you set out to accomplish....Yet, I am honored and humbled each time I'm involved in a funeral, no matter the circumstances. I've told the 30+ seminarians I've supervised and mentored that the most important things they'll ever do as priests is funerals.

I mean that. And I am privileged to have been a part of so many--for one thing, I'll never say dumb shit like "he's in a better place" or "God wanted her home....". I'm reliable for not saying dumb shit because I have no words at all to say in the face of death. I just sit with the survivors, help them plan the service and hold them if they want to be held.

Ben's mother called me yesterday--we've talked a lot since Saturday when Ben died in a horrendous accident while working on the family's property in New Hampshire--and she said "I feel out of control!" I told her--which is the limit of my conversation with people who have lost someone they love like a rock, "you are out of control. You are ultimately out of control." I wondered if I had tread too near the edge, but she sighed and said, "I am out of control. I have to give up being in control."

Oh, yes, beloved, when people die there is no 'control' to be in control of. When people die, a dear friend of mine wrote over 40 years ago (where does the time go?) when a friend of hers died in Viet  Nam, "it's like a bird flying into a window on a chill morning....."

Fix that, if you can.

You can't, give it up, no control/no control/no control....

In that approaching 1000 funerals, I've never be a part of one quite like Ben's.

He was only 19 when he died. Wednesday, the day before his funeral, he would have been 20. Imagine what that day was like for his parents---no, don't, you CAN'T imagine it and you shouldn't try. You just shouldn't. You and I cannot for a moment imagine what that was like unless you too have lost a child to death. And if you have done that, don't try to imagine because it would be too painful....

Anyway, I was going to the funeral home Wednesday night to pray the prayers for a Vigil with the family. I was to be there at 4:45 but a wreck in Middletown got me redirected and I didn't get there until 5:05. When I arrived there were several hundred people in line to speak to the family. I was carrying a Book of Common Prayer, which serves as my calling card since I haven't worn a clerical collar for decade or more, so people let me cut line. I told the family it was nonsense to try to do the prayers and told them we'd meet in the morning.

The service was at Holy Trinity in Middletown, thanks to their generosity, because St. James in Higganum wouldn't have held the crowd. St. James can seat 80 or so, packed in, and nearly 400 people showed up for the funeral.

At huge funerals like this, often only a few people receiver communion. But I ran through over 350 wafers as a disc of Ben's favorite music played. That and the fact that most everyone at the rail had wet eyes if not tears running down their faces, I realized this funeral was in the top 5% of all the funerals I have done for authentic grief.

Ben's aunt, who is a pediatrician, talked about how special he was and handed out stickers that said, "WWBFD?"--what would Ben Foisie do?

I never met him, but I do think, after all I heard and was told about him, that was a reasonable question. One to ponder. He was so authentic, sweet, accepting, loving, honest--'special', indeed--that trying to live as he would have lived had he been able to--might be a superlative way to live.

Altogether, a remarkable burial office. Altogether something that made me better, stronger, kinder, more open.

Just the gift that death should give. If we are only open to the giving....