After the post-Easter snows and days of rain, I looked around today at Spring.
Granted, I'd been gone two weeks--one in Ireland and one in West Virginia (neither of which seemed further along in Spring springing than Connecticut!)--but today it was all there.
The trees are budding, flowers are everywhere, birds are in profusion, the world is simply glorious.
Bern brought in a bouquet of jonquils from her garden--6 different kinds!
I wore shorts today. (The joke is that in New England people wear shorts with a hoodie.)
Winter wasn't nearly as brutal this year as in recent years, but the darkness and chill tend to drive down the Spirit. I'm writing this at 7:43 p.m. and there is still enough light to read on our porch.
Light is what is needed. Light brings the world to life.
As sudden as it seems, Spring has come in abundance.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Thursday, April 21, 2016
I'm back....
Monday: drive to Bradley Airport, leave at 8:30 pm, go three terminals in Philadelphia, catch plane to Pittsburgh, get picked up by Dan and drive to Wellsburg, West Virginia (45 minutes) arrive about half-an hour after midnight. Sleep in Dan's Roman Catholic Rectory.
Tuesday: up at 7. Drive to Washington, PA to pick up Tony, Bern and Dan's first cousin, drive 5 hours to Princeton, WV, approve Angie's casket and deliver her burial stuff. Check into motel. Fall in motel shower hitting right calf, left foot and forehead. Go to Garrath and Monica's home outside Princeton with our son, Josh, who arrived after a 7 hour drive from Baltimore, eat with various cousins and high school friends, drive to motel at 10 p.m., watch the New York primary results, sleep.
Wednesday: up at 7. Eat free breakfast in motel (biscuits and sausage gravy!!!), go to funeral at St. John the Evangelist parish (Dan celebrated and preached--Episcopalians received communion!!!) go to graveyard, Dan chokes up, I finish interment, say good-bye to Josh, have lunch with Monica at Applebys, I drive to Washington, PA, we drop off Tony, Dan drives to his rectory. Hurried, put together dinner. Sleep.
Thursday: up at 6, coffee, drive to Pittsburgh airport, discover our plant to Philly is 57 minutes delayed because pilot is sick and they are flying in a pilot from Charlotte, NC (no way to run an airline!) get seats near the front of the plane because we're going to go 3 terminals to catch flight to Hartford, run last 1/8 mile, last people on plane, moved to exit row, rehurt foot running, take wheel chair at gate to place to catch bus to parking lot (my first time in wheelchair...probably not last) find car, drive home, eat two eggs and three sausages and Daan with jelly, go get Puli dog from kennel, come home.
All is finally well.
That was my week so far.
How was yours?
Tuesday: up at 7. Drive to Washington, PA to pick up Tony, Bern and Dan's first cousin, drive 5 hours to Princeton, WV, approve Angie's casket and deliver her burial stuff. Check into motel. Fall in motel shower hitting right calf, left foot and forehead. Go to Garrath and Monica's home outside Princeton with our son, Josh, who arrived after a 7 hour drive from Baltimore, eat with various cousins and high school friends, drive to motel at 10 p.m., watch the New York primary results, sleep.
Wednesday: up at 7. Eat free breakfast in motel (biscuits and sausage gravy!!!), go to funeral at St. John the Evangelist parish (Dan celebrated and preached--Episcopalians received communion!!!) go to graveyard, Dan chokes up, I finish interment, say good-bye to Josh, have lunch with Monica at Applebys, I drive to Washington, PA, we drop off Tony, Dan drives to his rectory. Hurried, put together dinner. Sleep.
Thursday: up at 6, coffee, drive to Pittsburgh airport, discover our plant to Philly is 57 minutes delayed because pilot is sick and they are flying in a pilot from Charlotte, NC (no way to run an airline!) get seats near the front of the plane because we're going to go 3 terminals to catch flight to Hartford, run last 1/8 mile, last people on plane, moved to exit row, rehurt foot running, take wheel chair at gate to place to catch bus to parking lot (my first time in wheelchair...probably not last) find car, drive home, eat two eggs and three sausages and Daan with jelly, go get Puli dog from kennel, come home.
All is finally well.
That was my week so far.
How was yours?
Sunday, April 17, 2016
Happy Birthday to me!
At 2:17 in the morning on 4/17/1947, I was born to Marion Cleo Jones Bradley and Virgil Hoyt Bradley at the hospital in Welch, West Virginia, 20 miles from Anawalt, where I would live for 18 years before going off to college.
Welch, West Virginia's only claim to fame is that Jack Kennedy came there when he was campaigning for President. He pronounced it "Welsh" but won WV in a landslide in both the primary and general election.
Anawalt, West Virginia has no claim to fame whatsoever. A town of 500 (probably 200 now) in the midst of the Appalachian mountains in Coal Country. It was in McDowell County. Anyone from there pronounced it MACK-dowell.
My mother was 38 and my father was 40 when I was born. No big deal today. My grand-daughter to be, Ellie, will be born to my daughter when she is either 37 or 38 and Tim, her father, will be 40 or so. But back then, deep in those mountains, having parents of that age was strange, to say the least. My parents were friends with my friends grandparents!
I was the first, last and only child of Virgil and Cleo.
An only child was weird and strange back then and back there as well. I don't remember a single other 'only child' from growing up. Just didn't happen.
Being an only child cannot be imagined, I think, by someone with siblings. But, over all, if I had had a choice, I would have chosen it.
Couple of things: only children are never bored--we learned from the womb to entertain ourselves; and only children are annoying because they don't get the boundaries very well...for example, if I come to you house and have to use the bathroom, I'll think nothing of looking in your medicine chest. I'll go through your refrigerator and kitchen cabinets as well. Only children think everything is fair game since they're the only one.
From time to time I lament my solitariness. But all I have to do is talk to someone with siblings for a few minutes to return to being glad I'm an 'only'.
When Cleo and then Virgil died, I longed for a brother to support me or a sister to let me cry. And there was none. Only children learn from the beginning that there is no one to play that role, like a sibling would. So, I supported myself and let myself cry. Worked for me.
One thing for sure, only children know how to be alone. Lots of people, I've learned as a person and a priest, don't know how to 'be alone'. I'm an extrovert, but my 'only' status means I have no problem 'being alone'. I just don't. Sometimes I prefer it.
Plus, 'only children' don't have anyone to argue with about memories. I've heard siblings, over and again, disagree about 'what happened' at some point. My memories are solitary and unchallenged. Mine alone.
And now I've lived longer than I ever imagined. I wasn't feeling too bad about being 69 until Bern said to me, "you're starting your 70th year." Gracious girl, you didn't need to say that.
69 is kind of cool since it isn't 70 and since that number has such rich and erotic meaning.
My Junior year of college I lived at 69 Richwood Avenue with Mike and Mike and Doc. We were delighted with our address. It could get you a beer from a stranger.
So, being 69--though I hate how old that is--is cool in an odd way. But Bern reminding me I'm in my 70th year was a downer.
And I never dreamed of living this long. I was going, as the song said, "live fast, love hard, die young and leave a beautiful memory".
Didn't happen. And I'm thankful.
69 for heaven's sake. Who imagined it?
Not me, for sure.
But I'll take it, thank you, Lord, and I'll take, with joy, whatever comes next.
Happy birthday to me!!!!
Welch, West Virginia's only claim to fame is that Jack Kennedy came there when he was campaigning for President. He pronounced it "Welsh" but won WV in a landslide in both the primary and general election.
Anawalt, West Virginia has no claim to fame whatsoever. A town of 500 (probably 200 now) in the midst of the Appalachian mountains in Coal Country. It was in McDowell County. Anyone from there pronounced it MACK-dowell.
My mother was 38 and my father was 40 when I was born. No big deal today. My grand-daughter to be, Ellie, will be born to my daughter when she is either 37 or 38 and Tim, her father, will be 40 or so. But back then, deep in those mountains, having parents of that age was strange, to say the least. My parents were friends with my friends grandparents!
I was the first, last and only child of Virgil and Cleo.
An only child was weird and strange back then and back there as well. I don't remember a single other 'only child' from growing up. Just didn't happen.
Being an only child cannot be imagined, I think, by someone with siblings. But, over all, if I had had a choice, I would have chosen it.
Couple of things: only children are never bored--we learned from the womb to entertain ourselves; and only children are annoying because they don't get the boundaries very well...for example, if I come to you house and have to use the bathroom, I'll think nothing of looking in your medicine chest. I'll go through your refrigerator and kitchen cabinets as well. Only children think everything is fair game since they're the only one.
From time to time I lament my solitariness. But all I have to do is talk to someone with siblings for a few minutes to return to being glad I'm an 'only'.
When Cleo and then Virgil died, I longed for a brother to support me or a sister to let me cry. And there was none. Only children learn from the beginning that there is no one to play that role, like a sibling would. So, I supported myself and let myself cry. Worked for me.
One thing for sure, only children know how to be alone. Lots of people, I've learned as a person and a priest, don't know how to 'be alone'. I'm an extrovert, but my 'only' status means I have no problem 'being alone'. I just don't. Sometimes I prefer it.
Plus, 'only children' don't have anyone to argue with about memories. I've heard siblings, over and again, disagree about 'what happened' at some point. My memories are solitary and unchallenged. Mine alone.
And now I've lived longer than I ever imagined. I wasn't feeling too bad about being 69 until Bern said to me, "you're starting your 70th year." Gracious girl, you didn't need to say that.
69 is kind of cool since it isn't 70 and since that number has such rich and erotic meaning.
My Junior year of college I lived at 69 Richwood Avenue with Mike and Mike and Doc. We were delighted with our address. It could get you a beer from a stranger.
So, being 69--though I hate how old that is--is cool in an odd way. But Bern reminding me I'm in my 70th year was a downer.
And I never dreamed of living this long. I was going, as the song said, "live fast, love hard, die young and leave a beautiful memory".
Didn't happen. And I'm thankful.
69 for heaven's sake. Who imagined it?
Not me, for sure.
But I'll take it, thank you, Lord, and I'll take, with joy, whatever comes next.
Happy birthday to me!!!!
Saturday, April 16, 2016
The workshop
I went to Ireland to help lead a Making a Difference Workshop. I've been helping in that for over 20 years. It is a vital and transforming part of my life.
The group was fascinating. There were five members of a rabbinical school in Israel--4 women and a man (obviously this is reformed Judaism!) And one of the women was a German national with blond hair and pale skin. In addition there was an academic from Austria who is a trained leader of Centering Prayer. A scientist who teaches Centering Prayer--how cool is that?
The Irish were a mixed group: a priest who has been a missionary in Africa, whose name was (get this!) Paddy; a Presbyterian minister; a Church of Ireland lay woman who works for the church; a couple of nuns and a mix of RC lay folks.
By in large they were one of the quietest groups I've ever worked with, which gave me pause since I usually gage how well a group is 'getting it' from their conversation. But in small groups they talked like crazy. My psychological listening was that most of them were introverts--comfortable with two or three others but not in the large group. My two Irish co-leaders told me that Irish folks tend to clam up around foreigners--the Irish listening that people from other places are smarter than they are.
Whatever the reason, I fretted more about this group than any in years. But when the workshop was over I knew how wrong I was about them--they were great, just great and really 'got it'.
One of the mantras we leaders have is this: "the workshop 'works'!"
In spite of my fretting, the workshop 'worked'. What made it ever more remarkable is that the workshop 'plays with language' and we had six folks for whom English was at least a second language. The German rabbi spoke 5! Besides, the Irish are a folk divided by a common language!
There was a time of parsing language when I said (another workshop mantra) "understanding is the booby prize". What that means is that once we think we 'understand' something we stop inquiring about it. 'Understanding' shuts down questioning and the workshop is about 'questions' not 'answers'.
Try explaining 'booby prize' to folks whose first language is Hebrew and German! Give that a try.
But it was all great. The Israelis would break into song from time to time--my first workshop with a soundtrack!
Amen.
The group was fascinating. There were five members of a rabbinical school in Israel--4 women and a man (obviously this is reformed Judaism!) And one of the women was a German national with blond hair and pale skin. In addition there was an academic from Austria who is a trained leader of Centering Prayer. A scientist who teaches Centering Prayer--how cool is that?
The Irish were a mixed group: a priest who has been a missionary in Africa, whose name was (get this!) Paddy; a Presbyterian minister; a Church of Ireland lay woman who works for the church; a couple of nuns and a mix of RC lay folks.
By in large they were one of the quietest groups I've ever worked with, which gave me pause since I usually gage how well a group is 'getting it' from their conversation. But in small groups they talked like crazy. My psychological listening was that most of them were introverts--comfortable with two or three others but not in the large group. My two Irish co-leaders told me that Irish folks tend to clam up around foreigners--the Irish listening that people from other places are smarter than they are.
Whatever the reason, I fretted more about this group than any in years. But when the workshop was over I knew how wrong I was about them--they were great, just great and really 'got it'.
One of the mantras we leaders have is this: "the workshop 'works'!"
In spite of my fretting, the workshop 'worked'. What made it ever more remarkable is that the workshop 'plays with language' and we had six folks for whom English was at least a second language. The German rabbi spoke 5! Besides, the Irish are a folk divided by a common language!
There was a time of parsing language when I said (another workshop mantra) "understanding is the booby prize". What that means is that once we think we 'understand' something we stop inquiring about it. 'Understanding' shuts down questioning and the workshop is about 'questions' not 'answers'.
Try explaining 'booby prize' to folks whose first language is Hebrew and German! Give that a try.
But it was all great. The Israelis would break into song from time to time--my first workshop with a soundtrack!
Amen.
Angie Pisano--requiescat in pace
My wife Bern's older sister died yesterday. He name was Angelina Pisano.
(When Bern and Angie's grandfather and father immigrated to the US, their name was 'Lachedicnola'--but the dumb Anglos who ran the coal company where they both eventually worked couldn't be bothered to figure out how to spell it so they asked Bern and Angie's grandfather what food he liked best. He had little English but did know what 'peas' were. So, the family name became "Peas". When the whole family was in America and people started marrying into it, no woman wanted to change her name to 'Peas', so they made it Italianized...Pisano...Italian for 'friend'.)
I really didn't know Angie. When I started dating Bern in high school Angie, though she still lived at home after several adventures in colleges and jobs, was most often in her room. I shared meals with her but never quite had a meaningful conversation.
After that and always, Angie was a distant island that we had visited but never lived on.
Looking back, it is clear she had several psychological issues. I won't put a label on them, but they hampered her in life. Though she was talented as a painter and musician, she could never live very long independently. She's spent the last dozen or more years in a care home where she was comfortable if not fulfilled.
She was so much older than Bern that they never really connected.
Angie was always 'out there' for the two of us, but never close by. I've tried to remember her visiting our home and really can't though she must have since we lived in Charleston, WV for five years while she was living there.
I've tried to remember encountering her at Bern's father's and mother's funerals--but there is little I can hold on to.
Of course we'll go to her funeral in Princeton, WV, one of the most southern places in the state. Getting there isn't 'half the fun'. It's no fun at all.
Monday night we fly to Pittsburgh and Dan, Bern's brother who is a RC priest, will pick us up and take us to Wellsburg, WV, where his parish is. The next morning the three of us and cousin Tony (Bern's age and lifelong confidant) will drive the 5 hours or so to Princeton. (WV is a very big state!)
We'll spend the night in a motel and the funeral will be Wednesday morning. After that we'll drive back to Wellsburg and Dan will take us to Pittsburgh the next morning and we'll be back in Hartford mid-afternoon Thursday.
Trying to get from Cheshire to Princeton reminds me of the Irish answer to a request for directions: "If I were going there, I wouldn't start from here...."
Even though Angie hasn't be a vital part of our lives for decades and decades, she is 'family', she is blood.
We will travel to say good-bye.
Rest in peace, Angie, though I hardly knew thee....
(When Bern and Angie's grandfather and father immigrated to the US, their name was 'Lachedicnola'--but the dumb Anglos who ran the coal company where they both eventually worked couldn't be bothered to figure out how to spell it so they asked Bern and Angie's grandfather what food he liked best. He had little English but did know what 'peas' were. So, the family name became "Peas". When the whole family was in America and people started marrying into it, no woman wanted to change her name to 'Peas', so they made it Italianized...Pisano...Italian for 'friend'.)
I really didn't know Angie. When I started dating Bern in high school Angie, though she still lived at home after several adventures in colleges and jobs, was most often in her room. I shared meals with her but never quite had a meaningful conversation.
After that and always, Angie was a distant island that we had visited but never lived on.
Looking back, it is clear she had several psychological issues. I won't put a label on them, but they hampered her in life. Though she was talented as a painter and musician, she could never live very long independently. She's spent the last dozen or more years in a care home where she was comfortable if not fulfilled.
She was so much older than Bern that they never really connected.
Angie was always 'out there' for the two of us, but never close by. I've tried to remember her visiting our home and really can't though she must have since we lived in Charleston, WV for five years while she was living there.
I've tried to remember encountering her at Bern's father's and mother's funerals--but there is little I can hold on to.
Of course we'll go to her funeral in Princeton, WV, one of the most southern places in the state. Getting there isn't 'half the fun'. It's no fun at all.
Monday night we fly to Pittsburgh and Dan, Bern's brother who is a RC priest, will pick us up and take us to Wellsburg, WV, where his parish is. The next morning the three of us and cousin Tony (Bern's age and lifelong confidant) will drive the 5 hours or so to Princeton. (WV is a very big state!)
We'll spend the night in a motel and the funeral will be Wednesday morning. After that we'll drive back to Wellsburg and Dan will take us to Pittsburgh the next morning and we'll be back in Hartford mid-afternoon Thursday.
Trying to get from Cheshire to Princeton reminds me of the Irish answer to a request for directions: "If I were going there, I wouldn't start from here...."
Even though Angie hasn't be a vital part of our lives for decades and decades, she is 'family', she is blood.
We will travel to say good-bye.
Rest in peace, Angie, though I hardly knew thee....
Friday, April 15, 2016
The third ring of hell
JFK Airport is the third ring of hell for me.
I went down late Saturday afternoon to catch my 9 pm flight to Dublin. The parking lot for Terminal Five was full and I was sent to the 'blue' lot instead of the 'yellow' lot and had to go into Terminal Four and ride the air train to Terminal Five to make my flight.
(One difference between JFK and Dublin airport--and the differences are legion!--is a baggage cart at JFK is $6 and they are free and available in Dublin.)
So, I paid for a cart and started down to Terminal 4 to catch the train.
(Just so you don't imagine there aren't moments of wonder and grace in the third ring of hell--as I came out of the wrong parking garage, heading to the terminal, who did I meet but Ted Dinsmore...a member of Emmanuel, Killingworth, one of the 3 churches I serve, and his daughter, Grace, picking up friends from India. How great is that? In the midst of turmoil, a moment of sanity and joy! Amazing!)
So, on the way back I had to do the same in reverse--get my luggage, pay for a cart, ride the train, find my car.
Our flight back was almost an hour early (airlines overestimate the time so their 'on time' stats are good) but by the time I got back, by train, to the blue lot, that hour of grace was lost.
I'll write more about Dublin's airport...almost heaven compared to JFK.
Oh, I didn't yet mention the Van Wyck 'Expressway'--which is anything but 'express'. Two rings of hell--the Van Wyck and JFK.
I went down late Saturday afternoon to catch my 9 pm flight to Dublin. The parking lot for Terminal Five was full and I was sent to the 'blue' lot instead of the 'yellow' lot and had to go into Terminal Four and ride the air train to Terminal Five to make my flight.
(One difference between JFK and Dublin airport--and the differences are legion!--is a baggage cart at JFK is $6 and they are free and available in Dublin.)
So, I paid for a cart and started down to Terminal 4 to catch the train.
(Just so you don't imagine there aren't moments of wonder and grace in the third ring of hell--as I came out of the wrong parking garage, heading to the terminal, who did I meet but Ted Dinsmore...a member of Emmanuel, Killingworth, one of the 3 churches I serve, and his daughter, Grace, picking up friends from India. How great is that? In the midst of turmoil, a moment of sanity and joy! Amazing!)
So, on the way back I had to do the same in reverse--get my luggage, pay for a cart, ride the train, find my car.
Our flight back was almost an hour early (airlines overestimate the time so their 'on time' stats are good) but by the time I got back, by train, to the blue lot, that hour of grace was lost.
I'll write more about Dublin's airport...almost heaven compared to JFK.
Oh, I didn't yet mention the Van Wyck 'Expressway'--which is anything but 'express'. Two rings of hell--the Van Wyck and JFK.
Gorse and magpies
Two of the things I marvel at in Ireland are Gorse and Magpies.
Gorse is a yellow flowered shrub, not as tall as wide, that seems omnipresent in Ireland. It is along all the major roadways. I was riding to Dublin on Wednesday with an Irish nun and an academic from Austria. The academic asked what the yellow flowers were and I answered "Gorse!" before Fionnula could.
She laughed. "Jim loves gorse, Georgi," she said.
And I do.
If kudzu looked like gorse people wouldn't complain so much about it.
And then there are magpies.
I went on line to see if they lived in CT and a website called 'Connecticut Critters' listed them. But on the same page their territory was listed as only on the west coast and Texas. I know I've never seen one here. They are huge birds, related to crows and as big as our crows, but with white chests and white on their wings. The rest is black and gray.
They are as common in Ireland, it seems to me, as robins in Connecticut. They always seem to be in pairs or threes. They are very fast for such large birds. I enjoy watching them.
The Irish tell me magpies are very smart, so I looked them up as well and read a couple of articles that suggested they may be the smartest birds.
They are playful and cunning.
If you are of a certain age, you might remember Heckle and Jekyll. Two magpies that were in comic books and cartoons.
Gorse is a yellow flowered shrub, not as tall as wide, that seems omnipresent in Ireland. It is along all the major roadways. I was riding to Dublin on Wednesday with an Irish nun and an academic from Austria. The academic asked what the yellow flowers were and I answered "Gorse!" before Fionnula could.
She laughed. "Jim loves gorse, Georgi," she said.
And I do.
If kudzu looked like gorse people wouldn't complain so much about it.
And then there are magpies.
I went on line to see if they lived in CT and a website called 'Connecticut Critters' listed them. But on the same page their territory was listed as only on the west coast and Texas. I know I've never seen one here. They are huge birds, related to crows and as big as our crows, but with white chests and white on their wings. The rest is black and gray.
They are as common in Ireland, it seems to me, as robins in Connecticut. They always seem to be in pairs or threes. They are very fast for such large birds. I enjoy watching them.
The Irish tell me magpies are very smart, so I looked them up as well and read a couple of articles that suggested they may be the smartest birds.
They are playful and cunning.
If you are of a certain age, you might remember Heckle and Jekyll. Two magpies that were in comic books and cartoons.
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