On Irish Catholicism

Only in an Irish Catholic household do you:

- See more statuary and holy pictures than are contained in St. Peter's Basilica, but hear such gems as "Sweet Jesus Christ on a cracker!", "Christ on skates" and "God in garters!" on a daily basis.

- Have to go to Mass every Sunday and have to listen to your parents whoop it up all night every Saturday night.

- Have a mother who will surely burn the house down some day lighting holy candles at the same time she scorns all fundamentalist Chrstians as an "ignorant and superstitious bunch".

- Live with people who don't see why the doctrine of Transubstantiation, the Virgin Birth, the Mystery of the Trinity, Banshees, the Sidhe, Cuchulain's Hound and the Green Man are necessarily mutually exclusive concepts.

- Understand that it is a mortal sin for a young unmarried girl to let a boy go beyond a chaste kiss but only if he's another Catholic, whom you would lead into danger of losing his immortal soul -- those Prot boyos are fair game and you can learn a lot, and there's always Confession after.

- Have an uncle who blesses you with holy water every time you walk in his house, and who has a stack of betting slips, unpaid traffic tickets, medical bills and court summonses neatly stacked under his statue of the Infant of Prague

- Have an aunt who turns the statue of the Infant of Prague to face the wall when prayers go unanswered, "until little Himself learns to mind His manners"

- Happen to be related to half the Police Department and Fire Department, and bless yourself every time you hear a siren not just because the nuns taught you that but because one of your cousins is probably driving the rig.

Baseball is important to me for many reasons.

Some of my earliest, fondest memories center around baseball. It has consistently, throughout my life, been the one thing I can depend on to pretty much be what it is, what it appears to be and what it promises to be. This has nothing to do with winning or losing, promises of another type entirely. I am talking about baseball's basic promise: it Is. Strikes and other nonsense notwithstanding, Baseball Is.

I remember as a very tiny child, listening to my parents and our friends and relatives discussing the Rocky Colavito trade. I had the sense something happened to someone we knew personally. Those adults, who would later try to drag me to church and civic organizations and teach me manners and compassion, had already accomplished that in part. They were together, mourning a loss, and determined that one individual's or group's bad behavior (in this case the evil manager Frank "Trader" Lane) would not determine their overall outlook or their opinion of the institution. "Ah well," they would say, "I'm still gonna wait and see what happens. It's a long season."

And, from their perches on the sunwarmed concrete steps of the back porch, they would take a pull of their Stroh's longneck, a puff of their Lucky Strikes, and start discussing the Tribe's chances for '66. When you are exhausted from a long day's work at the steel mill, the railroad or the firehouse (or from washing all the work clothes twice -- there was no "extra rinse" cycle in those days -- and hanging baskets of soggy, heavy cotton clothes out to dry -- in those days women didn't need weight training for 'toning') -- when you are exhausted and sore and losing hope for the world's state, it is a good thing to sit on one's porch on a summer night and talk baseball.

If you minded your manners and got good grades in school, the nuns would tuck a pair of Indians tickets -- box seats! -- into your report card. The Tribe gave them to the Diocese, and the Diocese gave them to us. They were printed paper tickets, red or orange, and they were a Sign from Above that good work is rewarded -- maybe not immediately or as specified, but 'if you do A, then B is a reasonable expectation' -- another lesson baseball taught me early. You would bug your dad every day from school's closing to game day. Then, when the big day came, you would climb into the passenger seat of the '59 Oldsmobile, Da at the wheel, and wave as solemnly to the neighborhood kids as if you were a head of state being chauffered. You'd go down to the game, and the Indians would of course not win, but your old man would buy you Sno-Kones and hot dogs and peanuts and lemonade, and he would drink several waxed paper cup beers, and you would get to watch the names you heard on the radio actually working in the field, and it would be wonderful. It was like proof the saints existed or something. Duke Sims, Leon Wagner, and the heartbreaking Sudden Sam McDowell, all there in living color, just as you had heard of them on the radio and watched them on the old black and white Philco with the foil on the antenna. It was as close to proof of the existence of something greater as some of us got, and there you were at your Dad's side, taking it all in.

Summer evenings, when my Dad worked overtime or night shifts or was out with the boys, my mother and I would listen to baseball on the radio. Ma was always busy with something -- painting a porch, repairing cabinets, stripping varnish from woodwork -- and baseball was her background noise. It was usually the Indians, but she wasn't averse to listening to a Reds game if we could pick one up -- growing up in rural Indiana, she was a bigtime Reds fan too. So Ma would work, and baseball would be on the radio, and I would "help" by getting in her way, or I would sit at my worktable playing with clay or dolls or beads and listen to the Indians and to Herb Score. Wounded by a wild ball at the height of his career, Score went on to become one of Cleveland baseball's most beloved voices. So, right there, I learned multitasking, the virtue of keeping one's mind engaged while working, and, from Score, that a career-ending injury can be the start of something else.

All my life, baseball has been there. It was the only 'date' on which I really felt comfortable during my adolescence because I knew and understood what was going on, there was something to talk about, and we were in a public place and out in the sun. Movies and other indoors entertainments were not as enjoyable -- I had to make small talk, had to fend off groping, and had to pray I didn't make a complete klutz of myself, such as one does at dances and miniature golf. If I got a boy to take me to a baseball game, though, he was on MY territory, baby, and confidence was mine.

When later in life I went through some troubles, I could always count on listening to a baseball game to make me feel better. It was a combination of happy childhood memories, the orderly predictability of nine innings and 27 outs in most cases, and enough flexibility that it didn't always happen that way, thus keeping it interesting. When I was a divorced single parent, there was nothing unaffordable, immoral or challenging about sitting at my wobbly wooden kitchen table, swigging a beer and listening to the '86 Indians take a worse trouncing than even I had taken in my personal life. And there was always the remarkable Tom Candiotti to remind you that even in the worst of times, there is something to look forward to.

Through all the ups and downs of my life, baseball has been a constant. I do not admire the way it has become a money sport, and I do not like the crybabies. But I have a feeling that just as music survived disco, the Church survived Vatican II and fashion survived the '80's, baseball will endure.

It HAS to, for Christ's sake. I am not going to die, happy or otherwise, unless Cleveland wins a Series in my lifetime, and nobody wants a 118-year-old grouch hanging around.

Of Candidates, Charisma and Dating The Democratic Vote

All right.

If we're going to talk about charisma in terms of viability, issues and substantive matters aside (which, eventually and unfortunately, they always seem to be in this, the country's biggest popularity contest), this is the opinion of one woman.

Edwards is the cute, jeans-and-a-blazer guy who shows up at the door right on the dot of 8, makes polite conversation with your folks, opens the car door for you-(it's a late model Chevy), takes you to Steak and Shake and then an action comedy, won't let you pay for a thing, brings you home promptly at 12, tries to steal a kiss, and you may or may not let him. You also may or may not give him That Final Vote Of Approval.

Kerry is the guy who shows up a little late, on his bike, and is vague about whether you were supposed to actually go out. Before deciding whether the walk to town is worth it, you sit down in the kitchen for a lemonade. He starts talking about the things that interest him, and you notice a detached yet passionate affection in him for the things in which he believes. He talks, you listen, and although he may not be saying things that are witty or clever, you are hanging on his every word, because he is sincere. You try to get him to smile by making a few lame jokes, and he smiles politely, kindly even, but you can tell he really doesn't get it. Still, he is every bit a nice guy, if only you could break down a little of that New England reserve. You linger in the kitchen, talking more, and you can't remember the last time you heard some of these words used conversationally. Is this guy for real or what? And yet you sense not only that he is very real, but that underlying his rather formal, wonky exterior is a fellow capable of great passion. There is a certain sadness in his eyes too -- if only you could know him a little better. You look at the clock and discover that not only is it too late to go anywhere, but it is time for him to leave. Rats! You walk him out to the garden path; he picks up his bicycle and says something about being able to see the stars to the third magnitude when weather conditions are a certain way. You realize he isn't flirting with you -- he is genuinely interested in the stars. You walk along to the end of the path, and, as he goes to get on his bike, you wait on tiptoe, eyes half-closed, for -- what? You are startled from your reverie by the sound of bike wheels crunching on gravel. "Bye," he says, kindly but a little puzzled, hoping that your standing there with your eyes half-closed doesn't mean you aren't feeling well. "We'll be seeing you", he says, waves and rides off into the night, his lanky Jimmy Stewart frame wobbling a bit until he rights the bike. You watch him disappear down the lane, sigh and walk back to the house. As you sit staring out the kitchen window at fireflies over the garden, you realize that you may not understand, but you want to know more. This guy, unusual though he is, maybe even a little weird -- THIS guy is going to get The Final Vote Of Approval. If you have to walk to the poll to cast it.

*****************************************

This has nothing to do with the issues; it's a charisma thing. It is also a work of fiction; I have never dated anybody from New England OR with a late model Chevy. But, in the words of the late Mike Royko, I was just sayin'.... It's the little stuff that makes the election decisions, unfortunately. Howard Dean's media-synergized meltdown is probably the most textbook example of this to come along since Thomas Eagleton.

[Repost of 2002 Mother's Day story. -- Ed.]


reflections on mother's day


I saw an angel the other day. Really.

I was standing at the sink drying dishes, and from the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of movement. So beautiful! Tumbling from the heavens, its robes a streak of white, its long, graceful limbs unfurling, golden hair flying, it landed in my backyard.

It really did take me a full second to realize that it was my daughter, turning a cartwheel.

I saw a ghost the other day too. A friendly one, one I really have missed.

My father, fresh from Navy boot camp, before all the horro of war had hurt him so, was turning the corner of our street, walking along with a pretty girl on his arm. His jaunty walk, his tall, handsome self, that crooked Tyrone Power grin -- I was so happy to see --

--that it was my son, walking home from school in his Junior Navy ROTC dress blues.

Motherhood is not alway fun. It is no ticket to glory, fame, wealth or even necessarily recognition. Sometimes I wonder how God decided to hand the job of raising these two beautiful people to me, little me -- surely the least patient, most selfish, most grossly inexperienced person for the job. I was so certain I'd be terrible at it, in fact, that on neither occasion did I seek the position -- I was pulled from the ranks and conscripted. Both of my kids were total surprises. But I can only conclude that God knew what he was doing, because I have learned more from my children than they will ever learn from me, and they certainly belong in the world.

Ah, and the things I have seen. Visions that, had I never been a mother, would never have presented themselves.

Was it worth it? Yes. Would I do it again? Don't make me answer that. I have already learned that God is the only good judge of what's best for me.

But, oh, the joy that has been in the journey. I can only look down the road ahead with happy anticipation and the hope that, maybe someday, many years from now, one of my grandchildren will see their grandmother in a girl jumping rope in "hot pepper time" on a chalked up sidewalk. They may not know it, but I'll be there.

the mighty hunters


Our silly cats bring me "bounty" all the time. They are quite good at
dumping the goods live in the living room just so I can eat fresh. We have
chased sparrows, mice, lizards and a variety of charming things throughout
the house.

But they will not touch a spider. You could have a spider the size of a
hamster, shimmying and cha-cha'ing through the living room, jingly anklets on
each hairy leg, stopping every so often to snap its pincers and shout
"Cha-cha-CHA!", then making a loud Bronx cheer through its nasty little
aperture, and these cats would sit there in a concerned little semicircle
and stare at it gravely, not moving.

"Dude! Did you see that?"

"Yeah, man; I saw that."

"Shit, man; what'll we do?"

"Dude! I dunno. Looks pretty grim."

"Yeah, I know. You wanna take a poke at it?"

"F*** no, man -- you wanna try?"

"I ain't touchin' it, man -- my cousin Lenny ate one of those bad boys and
he fell out for like, three days. That is some powerful shit they got in
those things."

"Man, look at her freakin' out. Dude, you think she'll still remember to
feed us the canned food? I kinda could go for some Tuna 'n' Egg...."

Meanwhile I will be screaming, shrieking, verging on hysterics. My husband
will come charging in, expecting Ali Baba and at least twenty-seven or so
of the thieves. When he sees the source of my angst, he disgustedly gets a
dustpan or cardboard and ushers the repulsive thing on board, where it sits,
leering and mockingly winking its eight bright little eyes at me.

"In Germany," he will helpfully inform me, "it is bad luck to kill a
spider."

"In Germany," I will say, "they also change their underwear once a week.
This is America, pal."

He will shrug, smile, and open the door, where he tosses the gruesome thing
outside with a little shake of the dustpan. "Go on, little fellow; nobody
will hurt you!" he says cheerfully.

I give him my own version of a Bronx cheer, resolving to spill perfume on
the folded stack of hockey jerseys in the basement on the counter. Totally
accidentally, you understand.

From beneath the open window, a faint jingle of tiny anklets is heard....

I may have finally flipped. The evidence is certainly there. Still, when they come to collect me, they'll probably deem me harmless enough.

Tonight my daughter and a friend browbeat me into taking them to a Hallowe'en store. You know the kind -- a vacant space in a mall, turned into a costume and prop store for the Hallowe'en season. It took them two hours and a promise of their doing dinner dishes for me to even consider such a thing on the night before Hallowe'en. I do not like malls, I do not like wasting money on something I could have made better at home, and I do not like stores filled with shrieking, running kids. However, the girls will only be thirteen once, and the Hallowe'en magic will only work for another time or two before they are talking of it as something they used to do "when we were kids". Somehow from the jaded vantage point of seventeen or eighteen, five years ago is an entire generation.

Well, we went to the store, and it was, as I expected, a vision of retail bedlam, combining all the worst features of a discount store, a holiday shop and an arcade, including noise, mess and bad music. Still, I decided to make the best of it. Did you know that you can have fun wherever you are? I didn't believe it either until I tried it a few times, and now I insist on it.

There were all sorts of wacky props, accessories, masks and cheaply constructed costumes. Most of the things were expensive, gaudy and ill-fitting, made of flimsy materials in garish colors. That's Hallowe'en. You want tasteful in beige, go to Saks. Some ensembles had distinctively sinister overtones, some were merely grotesque, and many were humorous, cute, intended to be funny, sexy or very glamorous, all gauzy and spangly. One Elvira costume seemed to require the addition of Elvira to look anything like the picture on the package. There were more sequin tiaras than you could shake a plastic wand with a battery operated star at. Everywhere was an exaggerated pantomime of the profitability of selling to people the opportunity to be something they're not. I was reminded of Natalie Merchant's song, "Carnival".

The girls decided that they would be some variation on a "Dark Angel" theme and had found some large black wings with spangles. The costumes proved to be too expensive in their entirety, so we decided to go home and chop up a few old black skirts of mine and add some old stockings and some thrift shop boots. I walked over to the rack marked "Angels" to replace the gowns while the girls stood in line.

That's when I saw what may yet prove my undoing. I saw, quite simply, my wings.

These were the wings that invisibly attached themselves to me for the years of my own childhood between four and fourteen, the wings that carried me away, that conferred super-powers such as flying and time travel, that reminded me that I was not a mere being of clay but that my soul had wings and that I would live forever, that I could watch the world from great heights and travel to wonderful places whenever I wished it.

In this case, the wings were truly beautiful. Made of some delicate, evanescent, almost transparent fabric stretched over wire frames, they were at least three feet long and have a span that I would guess to be about five feet. They were a beautiful pale sky blue color with pale pink and lavender markings (a color I once heard called sky-blue-pink), they attached to the shoulders by means of delicate elastic straps through which one slides the arms, much as when putting on a life jacket, and they were trimmed with a dusting of silver glitter in a lacy pattern. Far from being gaudy, they were beautiful. How they came to be in such a place is somewhat mysterious; they didn't even look like they belonged there. There wasn't another pair in sight.

I grabbed them and headed for the cash register. I didn't even look at the price until we were ready to be checked out. Fifteen dollars. Generally, I would refuse such an expenditure as wasteful nonsense. As inadequate as the phrase is to describe it, something came over me. I unhesitatingly plunked down the fifteen and some change and was delighted to do it. The girls were between astonishment that I would be so frivolous and delight that I had found something so beautiful. It's what I love about thirteen-year-old girls. They will tell you that something is too expensive or the wrong color for you, but they will never, ever tell you it's silly. Silly is where they live. Delightfully so.

I tried to sneak in the door past my husband, who cast a baleful glance and said: "Tell me those are not for you." I don't lie very well. "Oh, God; those ARE for you. How silly. Don't you think that's a little ridiculous? What a waste of money. Why did you..."

In a rare moment without an acerbic comeback, I employed what seemed the most logical way to deal with our differences. I poked my tongue out at him and scampered up the stairs with my prize to where the girls were waiting to giggle over our loot.

Everyone is in bed now, so no one can laugh at me. So, I took the wings from their cellophane covering and tried them on.

They're beautiful. They are the perfect size. Just perfect, like they were made for me. They fit comfortably. I love them. I caught a look in the full-length mirror at the foot of our stairs and I burst into delighted giggles. They are lovely. I look funny, but not in a bad way. I wouldn't be surprised if they are functional. I covered my mouth with both hands and tee-hee-hee'd like a four year old. I am thrilled.

Silly? I'll tell you what is silly. Never having fun, always being proper, never wasting one penny on anything frivolous, closing oneself off to possibilities, folding wishes and dreams and putting them in the drawers and closets in mothballs. I have found that wishes and dreams do not keep. All too often when we go to retrieve them, they have disintegrated. Sometimes we cannot even remember what they look like.

I have wings. I am going to wear them tomorrow. If I were forty years younger, I would insist on sleeping with them on. I'm not sure what I'll wear with them, but the girls and I will find something.

And maybe late tomorrow night, I will stand in the back yard (NOT on the third-floor balcony, I'm a lunatic but I'm not ALL the way round the bend yet. Yet.), and I will ....just see.

If I see you on my way past, I'll wave so you know it's me. I might be too far up for you to tell. :)

Hugs to all, and Happy All Hallows Eve,

city poem

There's poetry in a city;
it escapes us while we find
things needed to survive.

Concrete warriors, angels and gods
tower over ribbons of yet more concrete
grey, sulphur, ash and asphalt,
clanking metal, screeching tires,
sparkling glass and occasional crash
to the music of horns, engines and shouted greetings,
an occasional curse or raucous laughter
and footsteps, still many footsteps
in an age of transportation.


On the slate-grey lake a freighter mourns,
lonely for a tug
to pull her down the river
her gravel burden to be borne
round the snaked curves of the Cuyahoga,
a labored spilling on the docks.


Wind slices down a corridor of steel and stone
and metal bones;
we clutch our collars closer
and hurry faster
as if to outrun the falling temperature.


Cathedral bells admonish us in song
to mind our manners
say our prayers
eat our lunch and catch our buses
and to watch the skies
for further developments.


There is something of a lullabye
in a city
to one who was born there,
a rhythm never found
in peaceful mountains or beside a pond
or in the grand green suburbs.


A city child sleeps better to a siren's wail
than to any gentle tune;
it tells of someone brave enough
to rescue the burning
and catch the burglars
and keep us safe
until the bells
sing morning songs again.


- October 2002

from a year's vantage point

I had a lot of complaints this morning. The dog next door barked most of the night, what time my husband wasn't snoring. I am surrounded by teenagers. I feel old. I feel unattractive because I feel old. I like some people better than they like me, or at least my mind would have me believe so. The freezer is too damn full and guess who gets to clean it. I never finished school. My daughter took up soccer, which is turning into a part-time job for me (and folks around here have been put on notice: Use "soccer" and "mom" in the same sentence within my earshot and see what happens to you. Just see).

Then I remembered what day it was. More bad feelings, more ill will. Happy anniversary and thanks a lot, terrorists, for giving my children such an occasion to commemorate.

Dropping to my knees beside the bed provided more complaints. Did you know that past a certain age, your knee cartilege is no longer made of elastic? That your hips can hurt? Oh, great, I thought, we're off to a flying start.

Then I remembered why I was on my knees to begin with and it hit me.

The dog next door belongs to the woman next door, who is a police officer. Today she will probably feel some apprehension as she starts her shift. If anything is going to happen, it is going to happen to her first, or at least she will be very much on the front line. She doesn't seem to be complaining, though -- I just saw her walk to her car after giving the dog a pat goodbye.

I am not a police officer. I don't have to worry about such things. I don't have to walk into God knows what today and be prepared for the worst. I am protected.

My husband went to work this morning. I know where he is, I know what he's doing, and I am fairly secure in saying that he will be coming home safely this evening.

I don't have to look at an empty chair, feel the emptiness on the other side of the bed, drink my morning coffee alone, explain to my children that we cannot understand the evil ways of humans and that Dad is with God right now. I was not on the receiving end of a phone call that told me he was never coming home again.

The worst thing I am probably going to have to do today is call the bill collectors and do a little arguing. Oh, and defrost the freezer, and haul the trash cans to the curb.

I will not have to climb flights of stairs in a building that is collapsing around my ears, rescue as many as I can, and listen to the agonized pleas for help as the last sound I hear. I will not have to sit at a desk in a dispatch office and listen to men I know, friends of mine, dying as we speak. I will not have to figure out where the terrifying noise in my building is coming from, what to do about it or how much longer I have to live. No matter how I complain about it, I have the opportunity to get older.

My job is pretty easy.

I look out the window and I see that our neighbors have the lawn service over again, and the noise and smells combined are infuriating to me. I, however, do not have to look out my apartment window onto the streets of Manhattan and wonder if my home will be the next target. I do not have to watch life as I know it disintegrate before my eyes as thousands meet their painful and terrifying deaths. All I see is a dumb-looking truck and some chemical containers. All I smell is some lawn fertilizer. Not jet fuel. Not smoke. Not concrete dust or heated metal. Just some lawn chemicals from a dumb-looking truck.

I spend some time talking with a friend. I remember that my first thoughts last year after determining that my family was safe and accounted for was that my friend and his family might somehow be involved. It's irrational, because they live hundreds of miles from New York City. However, when we love people, our hearts and not our minds think first when tragedy strikes. But this afternoon, I was talking to him, and didn't have to wonder if I would ever see him again. No reason for the thought to cross my mind this afternoon. All in all, it wasn't even such a bad day.

None of the horrible events of a year ago that I have described even came close to being my reality. The closest, in fact, that I ever came to actual involvement was switching on the TV to hear Peter Jennings describe Flight 93 as "approaching Cleveland". I heard the plane engines. Then they got a little less loud. Then fainter. They were on their way to a field in Pennsylvania. And yet I complain.

God, remind me that I have no real problems, that I have much to be grateful for, and that my life and the lives of those I love, including everyone reading this, are a blessing. And never let me forget how much work I have left to do.

God bless you and keep you all in His peace and love,

Celia