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Let it go, let it go,
Can’t hold it back anymore.
Let it go, let it go,
Turn my back and slam the door,
And here I stand, and here I’ll stay,
Let it go, let it go.
The cold never bothered me anyway.
(Let It Go, from the movie, Frozen: Kristen Anderson-Lopez – 2013)

Why write a story or an essay when a video or photograph can describe the events so much better? One scene or image can send such a powerful message that a story seems innocuous. That’s the problem I’ve been having with my granddaughter, Sarah Kathleen, over the past year. What stories could I tell of her when a video or photo sent to me by her mother could say so much more? But for the moment, indulge me. Let me be old fashioned, and permit me to use this archaic means to tell a tale of a three-year old girl who learned to express her freedom and imagination through song and dance.

The Disney movie Frozen was opening on Thanksgiving Day, and Sarah Kathleen’s parents had promised to let her see it that weekend. Since they were already coming to our house for Thanksgiving dinner, it took only a small adjustment of plans to arrange a sleepover that night and the movie the following afternoon. The early reviews for Frozen were very reassuring, praising the newest Disney animated movie as a worthy successor to such classics as Cinderella, Peter Pan, and the Lady and the Tramp. Now I recalled those movies when they first debuted in the early 1950’s. I remembered the anticipation generated by the previews we saw on TV, the publicity we heard, and the plans our parents made to take us. Those occasions were major family excursions with every child old enough to sit in a theatre chair included, as well as some of our aunts and uncles. I did worry if Sarah was old enough to sit through a full-length movie in a darkened theatre. I knew she was familiar with Disney cartoons and movie videos, but I was nervous about the blackened environment of a movie theatre. At the same time, I should confess that I was more curious to see for myself how Sarah would react. I’ve seen her mesmerized by scenes from other Disney movies, old and new, especially those that contained music. With her mother’s encouragement, Sarah had already memorized (almost) many of the lyrics of songs from movies such as Tangled, Brave, and Beauty and the Beast. So I wanted to witness first-hand how she would respond to a brand new, animated, musical movie.

Frozen 2

The first behavior I noted from Sarah was her mood of suppressed excitement. Granted the term “suppressed excitement” seems oxymoronic for a three-year old child, but where usually Sarah is bursting with kinetic energy and a will of her own, when we left our parked car in the lot, she was different person. She was careful to wait out all of our instructions. It was as if she sensed that any change or deviation from the set of adult patterns or demands might dissipate the event that was finally unfolding. She dutifully held her grandmother’s hand in the parking lot and theatre, stayed at her side, and answered all of her questions about the upcoming movie. By the time I joined the movie party after parking the car, tickets had been procured and duties divided. Kathy, Sarah, and Prisa went ahead to find our seats in the theatre, and I helped Joe carry the refreshments back to them. Joe was also contributing to the uniqueness of this event for his daughter, by ordering her own Kid Pack; a mini-sized box containing a drink, popcorn, and a bag of fruit candy. I doubted at first if she was big enough to handle the box with so much stuff – but watching her eyes grow in saucer-like wonder as she reached out to carefully grasp the box, convinced me otherwise. This was a special occasion and everything about it pointed to its uniqueness.

I’d like people to think that I spent the 90-minute length movie watching Sarah’s reactions moment by moment, but I didn’t. Frozen was a quality, dramatic fairy tale filled with magic, tension, song, dance, and conflict. I truly watched the movie, giving it most of my attention. The only times I really looked over to see how Sarah was doing were during the musical interludes. I was always rewarded with her looks of wide-eyed wonder, noiseless mouthing of the songs, and upraised arms following the rhythms of the music, and the movements of the characters on the screen. These were moments that brought tears to my eyes because they recalled moments of lost youth when the universe existed in the now-ness of joyful sensations and the assurance that you were surrounded in a sea of loving care and safety.

Queen Elsa 1

When I went to babysit Sarah the following week, I came prepared to follow-up on our shared experience with Frozen. I had already downloaded the movie soundtrack and added it to my iTunes Library and iPod mix. So when I arrived at Prisa and Joe’s house in Gardena, and I was informed that Sarah was playing Hide & Seek under her bedcovers, I went prepared to coax her out with music. The minute she heard the lyrics and music from Let It Go coming from my iPod, the covers came off and she sat up and called out, “It’s Frozen!” She quickly began lip-synching the words “Let it go, let it go”, and thrusting her arms forward as if directing a laser beam of ice at some unknown target on the wall. We spent the rest of the morning reviewing the characters in the movie from the prior weekend, whose names I wasn’t too sure about. That’s when, to my surprise, Sarah announced that she wanted to be Queen Elsa. I had assumed that she would identify with Princess Anna, the younger sister who sets off in the epic journey to find her sister and rescue the kingdom. Instead, Sarah had fixated her attentions on the pivotal character in the movie; the tortured queen who commanded the show-stopping scenes and sang the keynote song.

The rest of the morning proved unique in that I just let it happen. Sarah at three years of age is not as unpredictable as when she was 2, and no longer subject to as many spontaneous sprinting episodes toward any object that attracted her attention. Plus, her potty training had progressed to the point where she could use any public bathroom without accidents. So later that morning, I suggested that we do some early Christmas shopping and browsing at Target, and then perhaps visiting her Great-Grandmother and Aunt. At Target she again demonstrated her newfound restraint by following my conditions for not being placed in the baby seat of the shopping cart. Sarah agreed to hold my hand upon request, not handle any merchandise that I didn’t hand her myself, and choosing only one item as a gift for herself at the end of our stay. It was while walking through the toy and doll section of the store that we spotted the display of dolls and action figures from the movie, Frozen. There was hand-sized and doll-sized figures of Queen Elsa, Princess Anna, Kristoff the ice cutter, Olaf the snowman, and Sven the reindeer. Sarah again indicated her preference for Queen Elsa (“I want Queen Elsa.”), and that was the hand doll she clasped to her chest as we walked out of the store. Later in the car on our way to my mom’s house, she held the doll up in her hand, while singing along to Let It Go, as it played on the car stereo over and over again.

Later that day, while Sarah was eating fruit slices in the kitchen, it struck me that I might have a chance to take Sarah to our own private viewing of Frozen. While my sister and mother engaged Sarah, I checked my iPhone and found a 12:30 showing at the AMC Del Amo Plaza Theatre, not too far from her home. I already knew that multiple viewings of feature length cartoon movies were not a problem for Sarah, who at one point over the summer watched Finding Nemo every morning for a week. My problem arose when I discovered that the 12:30 showing was in 3D. I was a little unsure about how she would react to wearing strange eyeglasses during a movie, but I needn’t have worried. She was delighted at the news of another viewing and cooperated in everything I proposed. She followed directions, stayed close to me, and chatted away happily, telling me the parts of the movie and the characters she wanted to see again. I purchased tickets, two hot dogs, and the smallest cokes they had. The auditorium was huge, with only 4 or 5 adults, accompanied by a child, present in the cavernous arena. Instead of traipsing upstairs and across rows, I opted for ground level seats that were sufficiently away from the screen to afford comfortable viewing. It would also afford a quick avenue out of the theatre if Sarah should need to go to the bathroom after her coke. My concerns over visual disorientation caused by 3D quickly dissipated as the cartoon short began. She kept the glasses on from that point to the end of the movie, only occasionally lowering them to see what the screen looked like with her own eyes. I knew she was sold on the 3D-effect when I noticed her lifting her arms and trying to grasp the snowflakes that appeared to fall around us.

In the solitude of that near empty theatre, I again watched Sarah as she mouthed the words to the songs sung by Queen Elsa and Princess Anna, and how she thrust out her arms and hands in imitation of the characters and in rhythm to the music. We sat side-by-side for a long time in the dark theatre until Sarah spontaneously crawled into my lap and snuggled into my arms to watch a good part of the movie’s middle section. At the end of the movie, holding my hand as we walked back to the parked car, she reviewed many of the movie’s salient parts with me. She explained that Queen Elsa had been afraid of her power, and that this fear had imperiled the kingdom, and the life of her sister. But the love of one sister for another had saved them both and the kingdom. Of course, she didn’t exactly use those words. Her statements went something like this: “Queen Elsa was afraid. That’s why she the kingdom froze. But her sister saved her”.

I’ve often wondered about the way songs, cartoons, movies, and plays effect or influence children. There are some childhood images I recall even today. I remember not being able to sleep after watching The Wizard of Oz for the first time on TV, with the scene of the Wicked Witch of the East’s feet curling up and disappearing under Dorothy’s house burnt forever into my memory. I also remember trying to swing on a rope from one tree to another; the way Tarzan did in his movies. But I had no idea how the images and music from Frozen really affected Sarah until her mother sent us a Facebook video taken a week after our excursion to the Del Amo Mall. In that segment Sarah was dressed in a long-sleeved shirt with the words Love To Dance emblazoned on the front. As the lyrics and music from the song Let It Go was heard in the background, Sarah began singing and dancing along with the score. Imitating many of the motions of Queen Elsa during the signature song of the movie, Sarah thrust out one arm and then the other, swaying and swinging with the music. She ran, leapt, threw her head back and shook loose her hair. She was interpreting the Queen Elsa’s song through dance, and her movements and gestures emphasized the need for independence and freedom that the song announced.

Wizard of Oz

That video, and the sequel taken on Christmas Day, showed a child caught up in a moment of music and movement, while being oblivious to the real world around her. The reactions of her audience, those present at the performance and those watching the video, were one of delighted joy and laughter at watching such free rein of expressions. “Oh, to be a child again,” the adults seemed to exclaim through their attempts at restraining their amazement and laughter; “Oh, to be lost in the unconscious choreography of freedom and joy”.

I hadn’t written about Sarah Kathleen in over a year – pretty much during the period usually designated as “The Terrible Twos”. This wasn’t because there was nothing to say or tell, but rather, because I couldn’t figure out how to describe what was happening to her. How does one detail the internal workings of curiosity, mimicry, and learning so as to tell a story? Everything Sarah has learned this year has been incremental and progressive, demonstrating in effect, how practice leads to mastery. That was happening all year long. What did I see during this last month of 2013 to cause me to write? Performance. Sarah’s love of story, movement, song, and dance all came together in one performance in December, and it was the tale I decided to tell.

Some say the heart is just like a wheel
When you bend it you can’t mend it.
But my love for you is like a sinking ship
And my heart is on that ship out in mid-ocean.

When harm is done, no love can be won.
I know it happens frequently.
What I can’t understand,
Oh please God hold my hand,
Why it had to happen to me?
(Heart Like A Wheel – Kate & Anna McGarrigle: 1974)

I first learned of Linda Ronstadt’s disabling medical condition on Facebook in late August. My sister-in-law, Tootie, posted a link to the AARP Magazine story in which Ronstadt revealed that she could no longer sing because of her Parkinson’s. The news was a blow to me, and sounded so much like a death sentence that I didn’t want to read it – so I ignored it. I couldn’t conceive of the owner of that incomparable voice, who Rolling Stone and Time Magazine crowned Queen of Rock in the 1970’s and 80’s, silenced forever. I succeeded suppressing these facts until I happened upon a surprisingly upbeat article in the Sunday New York Times about Linda Ronstadt’s memoir and Parkinson’s.

The first time I encountered Linda’s beguiling voice was in high school, when I heard the hit single Different Drum on the radio. Although a new musical trio, The Stone Poneys, recorded the song in 1967, Top-40 radio stations and television music shows quickly started featuring its photogenic, standout female vocalist, Linda Ronstadt. I’d like to claim that I was an ardent Ronstadt fan from those early days in the mid-60’s, but that wouldn’t be true. My appreciation of Linda’s voice and work actually grew because of the devotion of a true fanatic, a veritable Ronstadt groupie, my friend Jim.

I’m not sure when Jim fell in love with Linda (probably as early as 1967), but it was clearly manifested by the dawn of the next decade. Jim bought all her solo albums and played them whenever our group of friends got together for trips, parties, or card playing evenings. It was Jim who convinced us to go to The Troubadour on Santa Monica Blvd in West Hollywood for the first time to hear her perform. It was in that iconic, musical temple of Folk, Rock & Roll, and Country Rock that I fell in love with her too. One had to see her to truly realize and appreciate how such a tiny, dark-haired, cupid-faced beauty, could have such a powerful and wide-ranging voice. She played us like instruments, flirted with our musical emotions, and blew us away with her voice. We would eventually follow Jim to other exotic places like Riverside, CA, and the Palomino Club in North Hollywood to hear her sing.

Linda Ronstadt 2

Although never the devoted collector of all her vinyl albums like Jim, I bought my first Ronstadt LP in 1972, with the self-titled album, Linda Ronstadt, and then 5 more, stopping in 1978. With the birth of our son, Toñito, that year, my record purchasing cooled off until 1987, when I learned (from Jim) that Linda had recorded a musical homage to her Mexican roots with an album titled Canciones De Mi Padre (Songs of my Father). This album became a great excuse to expose my son (and soon my daughter Prisa) to the wonders of Mariachi music. For me, that album confirmed Ronstadt’s reputation as a gifted interpreter of other artist’s music. Never a songwriter herself, she was able to take other people’s words and sentiments (mostly men’s) and reform them in such a unique way, that she eventually captured the real voice of the music and expressed it in a distinctly Ronstadt-esque way. Even with a song so universally recognized with the voice of its author, Roy Orbison’s Blue Bayou was successfully redefined and re-popularized by Linda in her album, Simple Dreams. In Canciones De Mi Padre, one would never believe that Linda wasn’t naturally fluent in Spanish, or deeply steeped in Mexican musical traditions from birth (she was neither). But her fluid and seductively intense delivery of Mariachi songs and lyrics was so authentic and so passionate, that millions of her fans were introduced to the romantic, flamboyant, and uniquely macho sounds of traditional Mexico.

Canciones De Mi Padre

I lost touch with Linda after her Mexican phase. I would occasionally read how she dated then-Governor Jerry Brown, was chosen as the female lead in Joe Papp’s 1980 New York production of Gilbert & Sullivan’s The Pirates of Penzance, and collaborated with Nelson Riddle in 1986 to perform and record selections from the Great American Songbook in 1986. But I was no longer attending her live performances, nor buying her albums. For all intents and purposes Linda started fading away from me. I assumed that she, like other aging but timeless singers, simply retired from touring and recording in the new millennium, married, and quietly resided in the peace and tranquility of some Santa Barbara beach. So I was shocked to learn last August that she suffered from Parkinson’s disease and would never sing again. It wasn’t until I decided to read Sam Tanenhaus’ Times article on a Sunday morning, that I found the will to think about her again, and to remember the influences she had on my musical enjoyment.

Brown & Ronstadt 1979

I liked the tone and content of Tanehaus’ piece, Like A Wheel, But Turning Slower, right away. It wasn’t the musical obituary that I’d feared, but, rather, an upbeat and positive description of an artist’s next phase of becoming. The story was a report of Linda Ronstadt’s new career as an author, and the publishing of her first book, Simple Dreams: A Musical Memoir, in September. While citing the AARP Magazine report about her Parkinson’s, and quoting Ronstadt about her inability to sing, the article concentrated on the memoir, and Linda’s artistic life before doctors confirmed the debilitating disease. I learned that she never married, and lives in San Francisco with her two children, ages 22 and 19. It also related an interesting story of Linda sharing a cab with singer-songwriter Jerry Jeff Walker after a night of music in Greenwich Village. Walker sang the first verse of Heart Like A Wheel, a ballad written by Kate and Anna McGarrigle, that Ronstadt later recorded in her 1974 album of the same name. Tanehaus described the song as beginning with raw emotions but seasoned with a metaphor – the wheel that when it bends can’t be mended – and a plaintive question: “What I can’t understand/Oh please God hold my hand/Why it had to happen to me?”
“I felt like a bomb had exploded in my head”, recalled Ronstadt in her memoir, remembering that evening.

Memoir

I found myself wondering, after I finished the story, if those same lyrics from Heart Like A Wheel, hadn’t gone through Linda’s mind when she was first diagnosed with Parkinson’s, and told that it was the reason she could no longer sing, and never would again. I’m glad Linda wrote her memoir, and my hope is that she will keep writing. The knock on all songstresses who ONLY “interpreted” songs has always been that they were not “authentic” artists; because they did not create the lyrics or music they sang. Many critics dismissed the legendary diva, Billie Holiday, who treated her voice as an instrumental part of the band, and was the creative muse of countless songwriters, as ONLY a jazz and blues singer. I believe Linda is in the same category. She influenced three generations of musicians, songwriters, and audiences, but never wrote a note or a lyric. She was an interpretive genius who never stopped changing throughout her career. Like Dylan, The Beatles, and Neil Young, Linda never stopped evolving. She was like the wheel in her song – her artistic heart never bent, warped, or broke – she just kept rolling along, traveling through the bumps, bends, and tragedies of life. Now she has moved into an art form that she never imagined herself capable of – writing. Even though she never wrote music or lyrics, she now writes prose. Written words have become her new medium of expression, her Different Drum, and I have every confidence that she will make them rock and roll.

Therefore, since through God’s mercy
We have this ministry,
We do not lose heart.
Rather, we have renounced secret and shameful ways;
We do not use deception,
Nor do we distort the word of God.
On the contrary, by setting forth the truth plainly
We commend ourselves to everyone’s conscience
In the sight of God.
(2 Corinthians 4:1-3)

I suppose one of the reasons I value my blog is because it gives me the time to make sense of the seemingly random events that occur in my life. By that I mean that my writing allows me to try and figure out the meaning of those incidents whose memory just hangs around. Many times in my life, I’ve observed, heard, or experienced a moment or event that seems to linger with me long after it occurred, staying with me, and haunting me until I figure out its significance, or give up trying. Many months ago, during Lent, two things happened that gave me pause – forcing me to wonder if a bigger message wasn’t being communicated to me. The first happened in jail, when I was leading a discussion with inmates about a video series we were watching, and the second occurred when my daughter Prisa called me to share the contents of an email she had received from my younger brother, Eddie. I intended to write about those incidents back in February, but never got around to doing so. Ultimately I forgot about them, or thought I did, until recently, when I was clearing out a conference bag of old notes, handouts, and programs. There I came across my notes of a talk by Father James Martin at the Religious Education Congress. I didn’t stay for the whole session, but while there, Father Martin spoke about one of the Spiritual Exercises of St. Ignatius of Loyola – something called the Daily Examination of Conscience. Contrary to it being just an inventory of sins, as I expected, he explained that this was actually a type of meditation that invited a person to reflect on the events of the day so that they might recognize where God was present. The idea struck a chord with me, and reminded me again of the two incidents in February. Father Martin said people and events could reflect the presence of God, and I found myself wondering if my two experiences hadn’t in fact been God Moments! Were they moments when God’s finger poked through that sacred, gossamer membrane that separates His Kingdom from our senses, and tapped me on the shoulder? I found my mind floating back to those two events that occurred so many months ago, but still lingered, restlessly, at the outer edges of my mind.

Early in January, Gavin, the Head Chaplain at the jail, encouraged my partner Issac and I to try something different with the inmates we met with on Wednesday nights. He had been circulating a twelve-week video series called A.D.: The Early Years of the Church, to the other volunteer chaplains with very positive results, and he believed that the men in our cellblocks would benefit from it as well. Based on the Acts of the Apostles, and the Epistles of St. Paul, the series depicted fictionalized stories of the early Church after the death and resurrection of Jesus. It showed how the apostles, especially Sts. Peter and Paul, first assumed the role of evangelists, living and preaching the Good News proclaimed by Jesus of Nazareth, to the people living near Israel, and around the Mediterranean Sea. The discussions could even be facilitated by a Study Guide, which the series provided, that plotted the action of the stories, highlighted important events and quotations, and suggested questions to ask. However, although this structured, lesson-plan format suited me perfectly, it went against Gavin’s preferred approach to our ministry. According to Gavin, there was really only one question I needed to ask the men at the end of every viewing: how does this story relate to you and your life? It was his belief that if the programs, videos, or discussions we offered the inmates did not immediately relate to them, we were wasting their time. For him, Catholic dogma and religious doctrine were of secondary importance after the spiritual needs of the men – and the men needed to find personal relevance in what we offered them. This is what we’re attempting to do through our regular Finding The Way programs, and he wanted it replicated in the video series.
“Trust the men!” Gavin would tell us, if we hesitated at presenting the more doctrinaire and dogmatic portions of our program. “You don’t have to come all prepared and organized with the right answers. All you have to do is ask questions and listen to what the men have to say. They will always surprise you with the truth.”
I don’t think I really got what Gavin was talking about until the fifth week of the series.

A.D.

Looking back, I see now that I was set up for the impact of one particular evening by an earlier episode that focused on Saul’s conversion on the Road to Damascus and the response of the Christian community. I recall being really excited about the implications of this segment, wanting to portray Saul as a zealous, orthodox Jew who was converted through a true “epiphany” – a flash of spiritual inspiration that changed him forever. Although the men patiently went along with this line of thinking for a while, Jesse, one of our regular attendees who often quoted chapter and verse of the Bible, soon took it in another direction with some very personal insights:
“I really got it after Paul was baptized, and he went to the synagogue to tell his story. They wouldn’t believe he’d changed! Paul really opened up to them, saying that God’s ways had been dark to him until he was shown the Light of Love. But the Christians rejected him and refused to trust him. They called him names and wanted to stone him. That’s something like what happens to us when we get out of jail or prison. We tell people that we’re different, that we’ve changed, but not many are willing to believe us, or give us a chance”.

Those statements suddenly provoked a lot of conversation among the men. They started sharing stories of how fellow inmates and guards refused to take their own conversions seriously, believing that they were incapable of changing their lives and becoming better men. These skeptics mocked them when they gathered together for Prayer Call, or when they left their cellblocks to join our sessions. They were ridiculed for reading the Bible and refraining from cursing and swearing, and they were often called fags and jotos, and considered weak. To my surprise, they also started mentioning the metaphors that were used in the video, and quoting actual pieces of dialogue. Reggie, another regular, noted that just as God blinded Paul before he was able to see the light of truth, so too many of the inmates did not experience God until they were arrested and jailed.
“Just like Paul said”, Reggie quoted, ‘he has brought the night on me’. “We don’t see God until we hit rock bottom in jail”.
But again it was Jesse, picking up on another metaphor, who brought the session to a close on a more positive and inspirational note.
“Just remember to never lose hope, brothers,” he said encouragingly, sitting in a front row chair and looking back to address all the men behind him. “God’s love and mercy will seek us out and find us, even here in jail. Paul said that all the time he was denying Jesus, and hunting down his followers, God was actually chasinging him. ‘Like yeast fermenting in the dark’, Paul said, ‘His grace was working within me – unwanted, unbidden. I was a horse disdainful of its rider, kicking against the whip. Now I submit to the horseman.’ That’s you and me he’s talking about, brothers,” Jesse said emphatically. “We’re the wild horses kicking against the whip! Have faith that God will never give up on us; we can only give up on Him. Let’s submit to God like Paul did!”
A few weeks later, the discussion that provoked this essay occurred.

We saw two episodes that night. The first began by showing how the gospel was spreading throughout the Mediterranean, with Peter in Jerusalem, and Paul and Barnabas bringing the teachings of Jesus Christ to the Jews and Gentiles in Antioch. Peter’s teachings in Jerusalem eventually enflamed the Jewish population and he was arrested for preaching heresy. That episode ended with Peter in jail, showing him at prayer, and recalling Jesus’ prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane, before his betrayal. The final segment started with Paul preaching and teaching in Corinth and Ephesus, to Gentile and Jews alike, and Peter back in Jerusalem, trying to settle the dogmatic debates over circumcision and dietary Judaic laws. Many of Paul’s letters to the Corinthians and Romans served as material for the dialogue in this story. In one scene, he noted, “it is no easy work to bring the good news, yet the hardship is softened by God’s grace, for God’s love permits the working of the yeast of his word through signs and wonders”. In another, new converts were quoting his words to each other about understanding how God works through people. Ultimately, Paul returned to Jerusalem for Passover, only to further outrage the Jews by bringing a Gentile into the temple, and ending up being arrested, imprisoned, and sent to Caesarea for trial. It was there, while in prison, that he repeated his powerful message about Faith, Hope, and especially Love (1Corinthians13) to the friends who came to visit and encourage him.

Paul's Journeys

They were two powerful episodes, and I had excitedly filled my notebook with questions and quotations. But there remained only 15 minutes for discussion, and rather than orchestrating and directing the line of thinking, as I had tried to do the weeks before, I felt it was more important to simply gauge the men’s reactions to the messages in this story.
“So,” I began, “what scenes or messages affected you most? Did you see any relationship between you and the lives of Peter and Paul, or the people in the story?”

“I never thought I had so much in common with Peter and Paul”, Jesse responded quickly, starting the conversation. “People think of them as big time saints and apostles. I forgot they spent a lot of their time in jails and prisons. I mean they weren’t arrested for the same kinds of things as I was, but we’ve been in the same types of places, dealing with the same types of inmates, guards, and judges. I really liked that scene with Peter praying in jail. I’ve felt that way lots of times; ready to give up and lose faith. But he wasn’t praying for his release or for a shorter sentence. He just placed himself in God’s hands, saying ‘not my will, Lord, but your will be done’. His prayer was short, and to the point: ‘Lord, I believe. Lord, I hope. Lord, above all, I love, Amen.’ That’s the way I try to pray. It shouldn’t be about me, but about trusting in God.”

“The guys in the Temple sure spent a lot of time arguing”, Reggie added quickly, jumping right into the discussion, “especially about circumcision. They reminded me of some ministers at home, and even some guys in prison, who are always quoting scripture, and arguing about what the Bible really means about this and that. They kind of lose the real message. Those guys are arguing while Paul and Barnabas are slowly spreading the Word, person-by-person, and family-by-family. You know, this series showed me how Christianity really spread after the Resurrection. The Good News of Jesus simply became the “yeast” that slowly grows and expands. Those new Christians just proclaimed the presence of God within us by what they said, and how they lived. We are the ‘clay jars’ that Paul mentions in 2^nd Corinthians. We become the real ‘instruments for the Good News’. We are Church, and God works in us and through us”.

Reggie’s words provoked a sudden visualization of the Baptismal ceremony in my mind, and Christ’s final exhortation to “go, and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, until the end of time”. With that image in mind, I suddenly felt compelled to ask a spontaneous question for which I had no prepared answer. What if no one answers? I feared for a moment.
“So,” I asked, apprehensively, “if what Reggie says is true, are WE really being called to be evangelists of the Gospel? How can we be evangelists, especially here in jail?”
Thankfully, a large hand on a muscled arm immediately shot up from the middle of the group. Although he had been a regular participant in many past discussions at other times, Siaki had been strangely quiet during all the previous discussions in the A.D. series. Tonight, however, he gave the powerful testimony that shook my understanding of ministry and evangelism.

“Yeah,” he said emphatically. “We ARE being called to be evangelists; each and every one of us – especially here! We’re being called to be Disciples of Christ by what we say and what we do to each other. That’s what an evangelist does! That’s the main thing I got out of this series. I was a knucklehead just like Paul. I chose a life of alcohol, anger, and violence. And because of those choices, I was arrested and thrown in jail time after time. But God wouldn’t give up on me, even when I wouldn’t change. He kept working on me, “like yeast fermenting in the dark”. God’s grace was working on me until I finally broke. This last time in jail has been my ‘road to Damascus’. I was finally knocked flat and broken down. I hit bottom and had to finally take an honest look at my life, and see what a disaster I’d made of it. I’m facing multiple life sentences now. I’m looking at losing my kids and family, and yet I’m at peace. I finally woke up to the God inside me, and saw that He’d been there all along, offering me forgiveness and Freedom. Not freedom like a release from jail, but real Freedom – Freedom to become the person I really am, the person that God created. So I take each day at a time, learning who I am, how the Devil tempts me, and how to be better. I learn from the brothers around me. We’re capable of great love and compassion, if we just let ourselves show it and accept it. It’s not about traveling to other places and converting people. We’re evangelists in the way we help each other, how we read the bible, and how we gather for prayer. Just like Paul said, “it is no easy work to bring the good news”, and it’s not easy gathering to pray. Other men see us as weak, and they make fun of us and call us names when we get together for Prayer Call. They think cussing, name-calling, and bullying makes them strong, when all they’re really doing is trying to hide their own fears. I think real evangelists just act out Christ’s gospel of love; they walk the talk.”

evangelism

Siaki’s words brought the session to a close and thoroughly challenged me. I had not expected that type of answer, and I was haunted for a long time by his passionate testimony and its implications to all the men around him – including me. Here I was, a so-called “chaplain”, a volunteer in the Catholic Ministry to the Incarcerated, but I didn’t feel at all like an evangelist. In fact the word evangelist intimidated the hell out of me. For me evangelists were epitomized in my image of Maryknoll missionaries. These were the Catholic priest and nuns who went off to foreign lands to teach and convert new souls for Christ. They were modern saints willing to lay down their lives for the Gospel, just like St. Peter and St. Paul. I was neither a saint nor a catechist, and I certainly didn’t measure up to Siaki’s description of an evangelist. I don’t think I lead a very religious life – and as to praying in public! I struggle to pray even in private, and my daily choices and actions tend to be motivated more out of self-interest and a desire for leisure, than for love. But rather than writing about that evening in my journal the following morning, which I sometimes do to work out my ambivalent feelings about something, I cowardly chose to put it aside and ignore it. I believed that with time my unease and disquiet over Siaki’s testimony would dissolve and eventually go away. But then my daughter called and resurrected the issue once again at the start of Lent.

Prisa’s call began rather routinely with Kathy answering the phone, and chatting with her about her daughter, Sarah, school, and plans for Easter vacation. Then Kathy passed the phone to me, saying Prisa wanted to tell me something. Expecting to also talk about Sarah, I was surprised when she told me of an unexpected gift and email she had received from my brother, her Uncle Eddie. The gift was a book called Rediscover Catholicism, written by Mathew Kelley, a convert to the religion. She knew something of the author, having heard him speak at a past Religious Education Congress, but she was mostly touched by Eddie’s sentiment in sending it not only to her, but also to ALL his nieces and nephews.
“Wow,” I said, wondering about his motivations. “That’s a pretty courageous thing to do.”
“Yeah,” Prisa agreed, “it was also a really sweet thing to do. I thought you’d like to know about it.”
“Thanks,” I replied. “Yeah, I appreciate the news. Could you do my one favor though? Would you mind forwarding his letter to you? I’d really love to read what he said.”
“Sure”, she replied, “I’ll send it right away”.
This is what it said:

Lent, 2013

To my nieces and nephews,

Greetings from your favorite uncle who lives in Monrovia!

I hope this letter finds you well. Usually your grandmother is in charge of passing out religious books but I’m encroaching on her territory as part of my own observance of Lent.

I honestly don’t know where each of you is in regards to your spiritual journeys. I do know however, that you started out in the Catholic Church (C’mon, I was an eyewitness to lots of baptisms).

These are probably the worst times for the church in my lifetime. Let’s face it, when you have to take ridicule from a self-righteous Bill Maher, you know that things are bad. I refuse to believe (like many secular pundits do) that the church is an evil entity whose time is over. I think the church has made despicable mistakes in the last several years but I don’t think that this is a reason to abandon it. In fact, these times have made me hold onto it more closely.

There are a lot of smart, beautiful things in Catholicism but the shame of it is that many of the faithful don’t really take the time to appreciate them. That’s why I’m sending you this book. This is a thoughtful, well-written testament from a convert to Catholicism. Every few pages have given me food for days of thought and reflection.

I’m not going to ask for any book reports but I would encourage you to give this book a try. If you want to get a preview of what it is about, you can see a filmed presentation by the author at: www.catholictvaustin.com.

I think I’ll stop there. If you want to chat (or argue) with me, you can reach me by email or phone. I sincerely hope that you are having a great year and that you seek to always be the best version of yourself.

With love,

Eddie.

As I finished the letter, I started wondering if the tone and content wasn’t a bit on the evangelical side? Although it wasn’t written in the flamboyant, revivalist fashion of an Elmer Gantry, it did show a sharp interest and concern for the spiritual wellbeing of our nieces and nephews. Normally I would say that my brother Ed has never been overly religious. Like all of his three brothers, he attended Catholic schools through high school, was confirmed in the Catholic faith, and served as an altar boy. His most active religious period was in college, when he attended Loyola Marymount University and joined a Jesuit outreach program called Search. In it he participated as a member and facilitator in many Kairos-type retreats aimed at sparking and maintaining a spiritual relationship with God. For many years he remained affiliated with our home parish church in Venice as lector, reading the scripture selections at Sunday masses. Eventually he married, moving to Monrovia with his bride, where he settled into what I’d call, a secularly moral and privately spiritual life. So this email and gift encouraging a rediscovery of Catholicism came as somewhat a surprise to me. I would hazard to guess that the religious practices, habits, and beliefs among the members of my Mexican-American, Catholic family could best be measured on a long religious spectrum. At one extreme there are people with very traditional and orthodox Catholic beliefs and practices, while at the other end there some religiously non-practicing, Christian secularists. I don’t think anyone is an atheist or agnostic, but we are all travelers moving along that religious spectrum, changing positions as we get older, wiser, raising families, or dealing with life’s misadventures and tragedies. There was also an unwritten family rule that although we might argue about religion with each other, we never (except for our mom) tried to impose our religious practices or beliefs on another family member. Was Eddie breaking that code with his gift and letter? Was he intruding into their private lives and foisting his own religious beliefs on our nieces and nephews?

Before reaching a conclusion, I re-read the letter. Everything Eddie said was true. The Catholic Church, as an institution, “has made despicable mistakes” in the past, and will probably continue making them in the future (look what the hierarchy is doing to the nuns in the LCWR). After all, it is an institution run by men, many of them old and dogmatically conservative. But, as he added, “there are a lot of smart, beautiful things in Catholicism” too. One only had to read the writings of the saints and mystics to know that this was true, even when those same saints and mystics were scorned and ostracized by the institutional Church. It finally struck me that Eddie wasn’t really trying to convert or change anyone; he was simply going “public” with his feelings about the Catholic Church, and inviting his relatives to learn more about it. It was as if he was saying to them: “Look, we have this wonderful storehouse of knowledge about the Kingdom of God in the Church. It tells us that through the Good News in the Gospel we can connect with God. Why keep it a secret? The Catholic Church is a vehicle for this connection. It’s a method for men and women to gather together in His name to find The Way”. I concluded that Eddie just didn’t want to keep this knowledge “under a bushel” anymore, so he came out with this letter.

I wish I could tell you that I immediately saw the relevance of what Eddie did with what Siaki said about evangelism on that night in jail – but I didn’t. Oh, I was very proud of Eddie for writing that letter, and a little envious. I even briefly toyed with the idea of working out my reluctance in writing through an essay for my blog, but I was afraid to pursue it. It was only many months later, while looking over my notes from Father Martin’s talk about recognizing the presence of God in the events of a day that it hit me. I finally had to admit that God had been trying to tell me something all along, while I was working at not listening. He spoke to me in the video series, A.D., in Gavin’s advice to listen, in the words that Jesse, Reggie, and Siaki shared during discussions, in Prisa’s phone call, and in the actions and writings of my brother Eddie. So, what did I think He was trying to tell me?

As I noted above, I’ve always fought the idea of being a member of a ministry, or being mistaken for a preacher or an evangelist. I am uneasy when people identify me as a chaplain in Prison Ministry. I’ve never felt like a chaplain and I’m certainly not a minister or a preacher! If a friend or relative praised me for performing one of Christianity’s 7 Corporal Works of Mercy or one of the Jewish mitzvahs (acts of kindness), I simply shrugged. As far as I was concerned all I was doing was showing up and participating in discussions with other men. But to be honest, I haven’t just considered myself a participant. As a retired secondary school teacher and administrator, I naturally fell into the familiar role of facilitator and discussion leader. I tended to separate myself from the topics being discussed and tried to stimulate responses in others – always believing that I had an answer to the questions I ask. I think God was trying to tell me to step down and join the men’s group, so I could better hear what they had to share and teach me. Looking back now, I see that their contributions to our discussions were astonishing in their sophistication, truth, and compassion. While I was hung up on making comparisons and identifying symbols and metaphors, they were relating the Acts of the Apostles to their own lives and struggles, and searching for personal meaning. Siaki’s passionate testimony to my unprepared question hit me like an indictment. As far as he was concerned, evangelists simply demonstrated Christ’s gospel in how they lived, what they said, and the quality of their prayer. For him it wasn’t about preaching, converting, or indoctrinating, it was simply struggling to be with God at all times. I was so stunned by its simplicity that it took Eddie’s example in a letter to his nieces and nephews to finally demonstrate how it’s done. I need to live my Faith and not be ashamed or embarrassed to express or show it. Christ did commission me to follow him, and that is a ministry.

I think Henri J. M. Nouwen, a Dutch-born, Catholic priest and spiritual director, said it best: "Ministry means the ongoing attempt to put one's search for God, with all the moments of pain and joy, despair and hope, at the disposal of those who want to join this search, but do not know how"

As St. Paul and the men in our group pointed out during our discussions on A.D., and Eddie through his letter - being a follower of Christ and the Gospel is hard. It is hard to finally accept our need for God's love and His presence within us. It is hard to truly love your neighbor as ourselves, and it is hard to pray. We can't do it alone, and so we need the support of God through prayer, and the support of other men and women through church. The men in jail call our weekly sessions together, church, and so it has become for me. Once a week I go to my Men's Group in jail. That is my ministry. There, for one night a week, we become Christ's church, and we gather to pray and help each other maintain our relationship with God and become better men. That's what ministry has become for me, and that's how I work at being an evangelist of the Gospel.

They say every man needs protection,
They say every man must fall.
Yet I swear I see my reflection
Some place high above this wall.

Standing next to me in this lonely crowd,
Is a man who swears he’s not to blame.
All day long I hear him shout so loud,
Crying out that he was framed.

I see my light come shining
From the West unto the East.
Any day now, any day now,
I shall be released.
(I Shall Be Released: Bob Dylan – 1967)

I felt odd and out of touch as I drove the old, familiar route along Old Mission Road, to the county jail. I hadn’t been on this road for almost a month now, and it felt strange. Showing up at jail as a volunteer is usually a thoughtless, automatic effort, with no plans or preparations preceding it. I simply show up. But this Wednesday felt different. I’d been on vacation in Ventura for two weeks and jail services had been cancelled for the 4^th of July holiday. My partner Isaac had been filling in during my absence and he continued meeting each week with a regular group of about 20 inmates. They were completing an 8-week discussion course based on Richard Rohr’s Spirituality of the 12-Steps, and a culminating ceremony had been scheduled during the time I was away. So my head was filled with questions and speculations about what had happened and what I had missed. But after greeting the other volunteer chaplains who come together each week to meet with the inmates, I quickly realized that I was the only one thinking about past events or worried about what was planned. Maria, Rosemary, Sam, and Alfred, each went about their business preparing pamphlets, folders, videos, and other materials they used or distributed at each of their sessions. They were all focused on their immediate tasks and not on what had occurred three weeks ago. Even Gavin, the Head Chaplain who is usually the most personable and solicitous of our band, breezed perfunctory through his greeting to me and got right down to business.

12 Steps

“Hola, Tony!” he began. “It’s good to see you today, and we missed you”. Then he told me to expect an email requesting any insightful stories or testimonies that inmates had shared with me in past sessions. He wanted to use these stories to illustrate our ministry to possible donors and financial contributors.
“I remembered that you’d written some stories about the men before,” he continued, referring to my blog, “so I hoped you could help us out.”
“Sure,” I replied, flattered that he had remembered my essays, “but I haven’t written anything about the jail for quite a while now. I suppose writing was easier during my first couple of years of service, when the jail environment was so new and different. I was still acting as an observer and recorder in those days. I think I needed to write so I could process what I was seeing, hearing, and feeling. Now I find that I’m totally present to the men during our sessions and I rarely feel the need to write about them.”
“Of course,” Gavin added, patting my shoulder in such a way as to indicate that he still wanted to receive something from me in writing. “Whatever you can send or write would be fine.”
Even Isaac my partner wasn’t forthcoming about what had occurred during my absence. I had to take him into an adjoining office and sit him down so I could question him, point by point, about what had occurred.
“So what are we doing today?” he concluded with a smile, leaning back into his chair at the end of my interrogation.
“Well I suppose we start over,” I said, holding up pamphlet #1 of Finding The Way In Jail.
“Great,” he said, bounding out of the chair. “We haven’t done our regular program in a long time, it will be good to start over.”
At that moment Justin, our former teammate, peeked his head into the office and said, “Hey you guys, come into the office for our prayer. Gavin wants to get started.”

We joined the circle of 6 volunteer chaplains that had already formed, waiting for us to join them.
“You know,” Gavin began after a long exhalation, “it’s become more and more important for me to come to this jail and be with you. My new position downtown consumes so much of my time with meetings, phone calls, and conferences. But it’s here, when I’m with you doing God’s work with the men, that I re-connect with our mission.” He nodded to a sign over our heads that proclaimed IT’S ALL ABOUT THEM, in bold, capitalized letters. “You are the ones who show up every week to call the men out. You allow them to escape their loud and sometimes violent cells to share their stories and testimonies about connecting with God, changing themselves, and becoming better men. They are the instruments by which God works, and you allow them to learn from each other. You all do a fine job. So before you go on your way tonight, I need to begin this prayer with a story and a request for your help.

“A few days ago I was leaving the Women’s Jail and I was feeling great. I had just led a very powerful session with a group of women and I felt wonderful. But as I was driving out of the parking lot I noticed a woman standing on the sidewalk holding a black sack in her hand. I had seen her walking out of the parking lot that morning when I arrived, and there she was again, no more than 10 feet from the gate. She was just standing there, looking lost and confused. It finally hit me that she was an inmate who had just been released. They’d given her a bag of belongings and sent her on her way. Only she wasn’t going anywhere. She was just standing there alone – not moving. What am I doing! I said to myself, pulling the car off the road. This woman is our job, our ministry! I can’t just drive away and leave her, pretending that she is not my concern. So I turned around and went to talk to her.

“Of course, the first thing she tells me is that she isn’t Catholic, when I introduce myself and ask if I can help. She was a middle-aged Black woman who had no one to call and nowhere to go. She hadn’t talked to anyone in her family since being arrested and jailed. She was too ashamed to go back. So I broke all the rules and did a One-on-One session with her right there on the sidewalk. I listened, asked some questions, and tried to help. I gave her some money, but besides a prayer and a little advice, there wasn’t much I could do. Then, before I could leave this woman, another woman with a black sack came walking out of the parking lot. She also had nowhere to go. So I come here tonight with this problem and a heavy heart to ask for your help. What can we do to help these inmates when they are released? I’m in charge of the Department of Jail Ministry, but there is nothing there to give or say to inmate upon their release. There is no piece of paper, no pamphlet that lists what they can do, or where they can go, on the first day of their release. So we have to do something. We have to come up with something. So I’m putting this out to you. It has been on my mind for days and so I’m now placing it in your minds and asking for your help and advice.”

Woman Inmate

A stunned silence settled over the room before any of the surprised volunteers ventured a comment. I was shocked by the immensity of his proposal. My mind raced at the inadequacy of our resources and personnel to tackle this challenge. We were volunteer facilitators who listened – not social workers or correctional specialists trained to research and develop this type of assistance. Gavin seemed to be calling for an institutional solution to a problem that a Chaplain’s Office couldn’t provide. This was so typical of Gavin! He could not be a witness to an injustice or an act of callous indifference by an institution without feeling a call to compassionate action. As the other volunteers started peppering him with questions and concerns about his request for help, I stayed silent.

“No, no, no,” Gavin interrupted the questions, trying to calm his volunteers. “I’m not asking you to do anything right now but listen. We already have two or three lessons in our program where we ask the men to take inventory of their strengths and weaknesses before being released. You know, the pamphlet with the In-and-Out doors, and the one about looking at yourself in the mirror. These lessons discuss identifying abilities, making plans. But we never ask the men what they are going to do on the day they are released. What will they do on that day? Who will the call? Where will they go? That’s all I want you to do – ask them. Then perhaps we can use that information to develop a handout, or a page of ideas, to give other inmates. Just incorporate that question into the ones you already ask. I believe the men can give us the answer we need. I don’t want to burden you too much, but I can’t do this alone. I suppose the real reason I brought this up tonight was that my feelings about wanting to help those two women wouldn’t go away. I felt an obligation to help, but didn’t know what to do. So by talking about it tonight, I’m sharing my burden with you. I’m moving it from my heart to your shoulders.”

I think I chimed in with the more relieved comments that came from the circle of volunteers after these words of clarification. I noted that it would be an easy thing for us to ask those questions to the men at the end of a session and then write down their responses. With that problem resolved, Gavin finally asked us to join hands and bow our heads, as he began the long awaited opening prayer.

As Isaac and I approached the circular guard station that monitored three surrounding dorm cells, I heard a man’s voice shout, “here’s Finding The Way!” It came from the cellblock that housed our largest and most regularly attending group of men. We nervously introduced ourselves and our mission to a young deputy we had never seen before, wondering if he would limit or interfere with the practice of releasing as many men who wished to attend our program (called “church” in jailhouse slang).
“Fine,” he announced with a smile. “How many men do you want?”
“As many as want to come out,” Isaac replied.
“Do you want to make the announcement at the bars, or should I?” he countered.
“Oh, Tony likes doing that,” Isaac answered, throwing me a rueful smile. “He hasn’t done it for a while now”.

A group of 18 men from three dorm cells came out that night to form a circle of chairs in the dayroom down the hallway. Nine were regular attendees, having completed a series of programs we offered. Isaac and I alternated explaining our general program and the rules for the session to the new men. We then went around the circle introducing ourselves by name and Isaac said the opening prayer. As soon as he finished, he quickly added a new twist.
“Before we start reading the pamphlet,” he said, “I’d like to ask your help on some questions the Head Chaplain gave us.”
I was surprised by this move. I had every intention of asking Gavin’s questions tonight – but I hadn’t visualized asking it so soon.
“Yeah,” I interjected after Isaac’s explanation of the task. “Let’s give every man a chance to answer, if they wish. So let’s go around the circle beginning with Jesse,” I said, nodding at one of the regulars sitting to Isaac’s left side. “Now remember that you can pass, if you wish, but I’d like to give every man a chance to talk. Each of you has a story to tell and I’d like us all to hear it. What have you done when you were released? What do you plan on doing this time? What ideas or suggestions do you have for yourselves and others?”

I didn’t know what to expect. This is where I was three years ago, sitting in a circle of chairs not knowing what the dangerous looking men in blue tunics and black slippers would say. Only this time I was asking the questions, and I already knew and trusted these men to share their answers honestly and compassionately from the heart. Twelve men spoke that night. Some old, some young, some were in jail for the first time, and some for many, many times. The entire session was consumed with their stories, wishes, and plans. White, African-American, Hispanic, Asian, and Pacific Islander; the men were of various ages, cultures, and places, but they all shared some common themes. All the men hoped to reconcile with their families and change their lives and behaviors. How they planned to do this varied from man to man – and therein lies the plot to this essay.

Jesse is a short, stocky gypsy of Middle Eastern or eastern European descent. We could always count on him to lead us in prayer or answer a question. He is part of the group of men from one cell who has been coming out for our meetings for over a year, waiting for his case to be resolved. He speaks with determined intensity about establishing and maintaining a consistent relationship with God, but his voice always softens when describing his family and children. His comments went something like this:

“First and foremost, I’m going to reconnect with my family,” he began. “I only want to associate with people who know me and accept the new, spiritual man I’ve become. Then I’m going to find a job – any job. I don’t care if it’s sweeping floors or flipping burgers, there’s no job too menial or hard that I won’t do. Next I’m going to find a Church to attend and be a part of. I want to surround myself with good people who are working at being better. Most importantly, I’m going to keep busy. The devil is always around, ready to pounce at every moment of leisure or pleasure. So I plan on keeping busy with family, children, and church. I’ll work hard and save money so I can get an apartment before I become a burden on my family. What advise do I have for others and myself? Well mainly I’m going to do the opposite of what I did before. I’m going to go to church and volunteer to help. I’m going to take one day at a time. I’m trusting that God will provide. Have faith brothers, God will come through. Roof, food, and being with people you love – that’s what I plan on doing when I’m out.”

Jason is a tall, young-looking Asian American who always has a smile on his face. He too is part of the regular group who come out. He is a man of few words who rarely speaks in group, but he shared some thoughts with us tonight:

“When I’m out, I plan on going home and staying with my family. I’m lucky because my family owns a business, so I plan on working there. For sure I’m going to find a church and become a part of it.”

Brent is a big, friendly, bear-sized man who gets along with everyone. Isaac discovered that he was raised a Mormon, but because he hung out with friends from so many religions, he picked up a smattering of all of them. Since he wasn’t committed to any one church or religion, he treated our sessions as a men’s support group, and he was always inviting other inmates in the dorm to come. This evening he had talked a Jewish inmate named David into joining us. Brent started with a bit of his history:

“I’ve been in an out of jails so much I’m an expert at being released. The first thing I always do when I get home is toss out all the drugs and alcohol I have stashed around the house. Just like Denzel Washington in that movie we saw, I dump them down the sink and toilet. But what happens next is all these self-doubts and negative thoughts start hitting me. Where will I find a job? Who will hire me? How do I get my license back? I start getting angry and depressed, even though I’m really just afraid. That’s when I slip back into drugs and the cycle starts all over again. So what will I do this time when I’m released? I would go home. My family has always accepted me back. They’ve never turned their backs on me… I’m blessed.”
Those last sentences came out haltingly slow, as emotion overtook him and his massive chest shook. He stopped to take one deep breath and then another, but no sounds came from the words his mouth tried to form. He wiped away one tear and then another, slowly looking up to meet the sympathetic eyes surrounding him.
“Addiction is a powerful force,” he mumbled softly, shaking his head. “I pray I can overcome it next time.”

Billy was a white first-timer to the group. He had long, grey and white hair, and glassy, crazy eyes. He began a rambling monologue about his many attempts at getting clean and going straight on the outside. As best I could understand, he finally said something like this:

“What am I going to do when I’m free? Don’t get high! Don’t pick up where I left off! Sign up for school and learn a trade. Don’t waste your time like you’re doing here. This jail and most prisons don’t teach you anything – no classes, no programs, and no skills. Jails are just warehouses for men serving time. They stack us in like boxes. You know, the best thing that ever happened to me the last time I was locked up was being sent to Fire Camp for two years. That’s one of those state camps run by the Department of Corrections for fire control and other emergencies. The director there was a mean SOB, but he treated us fair. He spelled out the rules and expected us to follow them. If you messed up, you were gone, but the choice was yours. He didn’t look at us like low-life scum and losers, he saw us as men who could learn to do a job and change. I learned a lot of skills during those years. So my advice is to sign up for school as soon as you’re released. Learn a trade. Learn some skills. We’re not dummies! You can’t lose in school; you can only gain.”

Jose was always recognizable when he occasionally came out to join our groups. He was a tall, big-boned Hispanic with long, black hair, who rarely said a word – preferring, apparently, to sit back and listen. I was expecting him to pass, as some of the men before him had. Instead he took a long, deep breath and began speaking very softly:

“When I get out, the first thing I’m going to do is find a church and join some drug or AA program. I want to address my old behaviors and make new choices. I just need to remember to not give up. Don’t give up! It’s going to be hard outside, but we can’t give up. I think joining a group will help.”

Edgar was another new, young face in the circle. He spoke with a slight Mexican accent and sounded eager to relate the bizarre series of events that led him to his current incarceration. He began his story as many inmates do, with an admission of many prior arrests and convictions, but with the insistence that “this time, I didn’t do anything!” His rambling narrative went something like this:

“Usually when you’re released from jail or prison everyone expects you to mess up and get busted again. We go back to our old neighborhood, connect with old friends, and fall back into old habits. Every time I checked in with my parole officer he’d say that I looked like I’d done something wrong. But this last time I was out and really trying to stay clean and free. A week before I got out I made a list of 10 things I needed to do. I was trying to be really organized, see. But man, I was so happy to be out and going home, I lost that list right away. Luckily, there’s this neighbor whose known me all my life. He’s an old Anglo guy who owns property near my home. So he wants me to succeed, right, and he helps me out with jobs and a place to rent on his property. Well, I move in, right, and two days later the cops raid the place. I’m thinking, ‘hey, this is cool, I have nothing to worry about,’ right? I haven’t done anything wrong. Well the cops start searching the grounds and what do they find in the garden next to my place? They see these huge, old pots of marijuana and weed – tons of the stuff, as high as my head. The cops look at that stuff and then at me, and one of them says, ‘man, you’re screwed’. I think he believed me when I told him I didn’t know anything about it, but with my priors there was no way he wasn’t taking me in. So here I am, in jail again. Only this time I’m innocent of the charges. But you know, God is good, and he sends us signs and messages to wake us up. I go to court for my arraignment, and the next thing I know the charges are dropped. I don’t know what happened, or who did what, all I know is that I’m out of here at the end of the week. This time I’m going to make it. I’m going to find people who can help me get started. I’m going to stay home with my family. I’m going to join my Dad’s business and work hard. I’m going to look for a church and be active in it. And I’m going to thank God for not giving up on me.”

Anthony was another first-timer. He was a trim, well muscled, African-American with a ready smile and a sophisticated vocabulary that betrayed a good education. He gave a concise story of his past and his ideas for a successful rehabilitation:

“Unlike some of my brothers here, I have no family to go home to when I’m released. My grandmother, father, and mother are gone. I have siblings, but we don’t communicate and they lead their own lives. I came from parents who had successful professions in the music and entertainment business. But instead of concentrating on school and work, I partied. I got into drugs, women, and gangs, and I went for the easy money of dealing. That’s how I wound up going in and out of jail and prison. Like my brother over there, I did time at Fire Camp and learned that when we’re treated like human beings we act like human being and make better choices. Now I’m mostly tired of going in and out of jail. I’m not going to bore you with the details of my case, but like my brother here, I’m innocent of the current charges against me. But it’s in God’s hands, so I’ll take what comes. I’m just resolved that next time I’m released I won’t come back.

“I think we need three thing to succeed outside: foundation, communication, and transportation. You need a plan to follow. You need a support group to sustain you when times are tough and you’re tempted to give in, backslide, or return to drugs and violence. You need to speak, write, and relate better to people by what we say, do, or dress. We need to go to school, find a job, and join a support group to avoid drugs, alcohol, and the people who use them. Find the things that you can do and enjoy. Don’t dwell on what you can’t do! What are your talents, skills, and abilities? We have many if we look hard enough. Make a self-inventory, write them down and look at them. But all these things are pointless if you haven’t changed on the inside. I believe that’s why I’m in this place now. All the plans in the world – a good foundation, great communication, and excellent transportation – these things won’t guarantee success on the outside. The change must be in ME. I need to change my actions NOW, in how I act and what I say. The change must be in me BEFORE I’m released. That’s the only way I’ll succeed.”

Brendon was another African American who had been attending regularly over the last month. He seemed very prepared to relate his ideas, and he spoke eagerly:

“The first thing I’m going to do when I’m out is get down on my knees and thank God for his mercy and grace. I’m going to kneel there reflecting on how he got me through this experience, how he blessed me with his strength, and how I can only succeed with his help. The next thing I’m going to do is find a fast food restaurant and eat. God, I’m looking forward to eating a McDonald or In & Out burger, with fries, and a coke. Then I’m going to reunite with my family, my mother, and reflect on what I’ve learned in jail and what I want to do. I need to reflect on the things that have to change: me, first, and then the people, the drugs, the addictions, and the choices. Then I’m going to build a plan. Failing to plan is a plan that’s going to fail. I’m going to go to school, find a job, and provide for my family. That’s what I’m going to do when I get out.”

Sitting next to Brendon was his cellmate Chris who usually accompanied him to this group on Wednesdays. Other than being African American, they were a study in opposites. Chris was tall, with a deep, bass voice, and slow measured movements. While Brendon was spiritual and often quoted scripture, Chris was silent and practical, only speaking to give support or validation to others. He provided the most concrete advice of the evening:

“I agree with my brothers over there about Fire Camp,” he said, nodding at Billy and Anthony. I learned a lot of things about myself at that camp and many other skills. Once I thought seriously about going into firefighting and emergency services, but I fell back into my old ways and bad choices. Everyone has mentioned the importance of finding work, but finding a job is hard. So I recommend a program call Work Source, California. It’s a statewide employment service that helps you build a resume based on your skills, abilities, and experiences. It helps you apply for jobs, and trains you on how to interview. I’ve used it before and it works. I plan on using it again when I’m out. I’m also going to contact a church and find a sponsor for help in lots of things – addictions, spiritual guidance, counseling, whatever. I plan on renewing my driver’s license, getting a social security card, and checking in with my parole officer. But first and foremost I want a home cooked meal when I get out.”

Work Source

The evening had grown late as we went around the circle listening to the men sharing their stories and advice. When I invited the last man to speak, he shook his head.
“I don’t think there’s enough time for me to say what’s on my mind,” he said, looking up at the clock through the thick window glass of the dayroom.
“We have plenty of time,” I lied, hiding my worry that some over-eager guard might want to vacate the room before the mandatory bed count at 8:30 pm. This was one man I wanted to hear, and wanted others to listen to. He was a tall, dark, and thickly muscled man of undetermined ethnicity. His name was Siaki, and I suspected he was Samoan, but he profiled enough characteristics to also be considered Asian, Hispanic, or African American. He had been coming out and participating regularly in our groups for over a year, having received certificates of completion for over five programs. At first impression he could appear incredibly menacing, and he probably used that aspect in his youth and adulthood to intimidate, dominate, and terrorize his victims. Now I knew him as a good man, struggling to maintain hope, and staying connected to God.

“Well,” he began slowly, “unlike most of you, I’m facing multiple life sentences, so I won’t be getting out of prison anytime soon. So what do I do? I think on today. I ask myself, what does God want me to do today? Those are the actions and behaviors I concentrate on for that particular day. You see, in the past I got high. That’s how I dealt with things – with pain, anger, despair, and betrayal. I would get high and then I would get violent. That’s how I kept winding up in jails and prisons all my life. So I’ve been using my time here to figure things out. I’ve been learning about myself, and finding out which people, choices, and actions triggered my anger and addictions. I remember one time in the army when my commanding officer called me into his office.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘you have a problem.’
‘Yes sir,’ I said, ‘I know.’
‘Well, what is it?’ He asked.
‘I don’t know, sir.’ I said.
‘Well if you don’t know what your problem is, son,’ he said, throwing his hands up in the air, ‘how can you fix it?’
That’s what I’ve been doing in jail this time. I’m figuring out what my problems are, and practicing at fixing them while I’m here. I don’t know what will happen with my case. I’ll leave that in God’s hands. I just don’t want to die a failure, knowing that I could have done better. So I concentrate on being better, one day at a time, right here and now. You see, I found peace in this place. Despite the noise, violence, and conflict around us, I found peace here. I broke when they sent me here again; and it’s only when you’ve been completely broken down that you see things clearly and find peace. I can connect to God in this place and I leave my future in his hands. He can do with me as He wishes. As for me, I try to take each day at a time and learn from other people. There is so much we can learn from one another, and we each have a great capacity to love and take care of each other. So I pray. I pray on my own or in our prayer circle. I pray that God will have mercy on me. I want to go home and take care of my mom and children, but I trust in God first.”

When he stopped talking, the men in the circle erupted in spontaneous applause, with a few shouting, “God bless you, brother,” and “Keep the faith, brother. God never fails.”

In retrospect, there were many commonalities in all these plans, ideas, and suggestions. I intend to itemize them in writing and give them to Gavin. But what struck me most was the unifying belief in the need for support groups, family, and church affiliation. All the men knew that they needed human and spiritual support to keep their faith and hope alive, and to sustain their changes of behavior on the outside. They could not do it on their own. They were all echoing the AA model of maintaining a personal sponsor and support group, while realizing that they are powerless on their own without the grace of God. However it was Siaki’s words that popped all the balloons of wishful thinking and brought us back to earth. Behavioral changes don’t suddenly occur when men and women are released from jail or prison. These men had to begin identifying their problems NOW, and changing their attitudes, choices, and actions NOW, day by day. These changes had to become their practice so that by the time they were released it would be as natural as breathing the free air. Perhaps the simple act of gathering together each Wednesday night to support each other in prayer and reflection was the first step in their Action Plan for freedom. I pray it is.

I heard Lead Belly and Blind Lemon
On the street where I was born, and
Muddy Waters singing, “I’m A Rolling Stone”.
I went home and read my Christmas Humphreys’ book on Zen,
Curiosity Killed the Cat,
Kerouac’s Dharma Bums, and On the Road.

What’s my line?
I’m happy cleaning windows!
Well, I’ll take my time,
I’ll see you when my love grows.
Baby, don’t let it slide.
I’m a workingman in my prime,
Cleaning windows!
(Cleaning Windows: Van Morrison – 1982)

I happened across my professional resume the other day while I was cleaning out some old files at home. It was actually a pretty impressive document. Three pages listing 36 years of teaching and administrative experiences, with a handsome number of publishing and consulting credits thrown in as well. This vitae would be very useful if I were looking for a job as a principal, teacher, or educational consultant, but it didn’t give a completely accurate picture of my entire employment history. Throughout my college, Air Force, and post-graduate years, I never considered becoming a teacher, and certainly never planned on becoming a middle school principal. Fantasies of a life as a lawyer, newspaper reporter, or foreign diplomat danced through my head in those days. But my life didn’t turn out that way. In fact, since 1975, my educational career path has been pretty predictable in it trajectory. So what about those undocumented years? What did I do, and where did I work during those blank spots in my employment record? I wonder if any of my attitudes and prejudices about work, manual labor, sales, and workplace comradeship were formed in those early years that are no longer reflected in my work resume?

I think I was 10 or 11 when the idea of getting a job entered my head. It came from hearing my dad talking nostalgically about his first work experiences. As the eldest child in his family, he started working with his father, my abuelito, distributing the Spanish-language newspaper, La Opiñion, throughout East and central Los Angeles in the 1930’s. During high school he worked at a recording studio and record shop of some kind, during which time he started his own record collection of swing and jazz music. He described these experiences as maturing and character building events that taught him responsibility and dependability. He never emphasized the freedom an earned wage gave him. Instead, he stressed the pride he felt giving his paycheck to his mother and helping to contribute to the family’s general economic welfare. I really started badgering my parents of my desire to get a job when I learned that my Uncle Charlie had started delivering newspapers to earn extra money. Charlie was the youngest brother in my dad’s family, and I remember accompanying him once on his bike route, when he went collecting his monthly subscriptions. He seemed so mature and world-wise as he amiably bantered with his customers, wrote out a receipt, and carefully placed the money he received into a canvas moneybag. Not withstanding that he was 5 years older than me, I wanted to be just like him. While I believe my father was inclined to give me an opportunity to get a paper route, my mom was firmly against the idea of a job. She was convinced that my father’s family placed too great a value on working over education. As far as she was concerned, my job was to excel at school and not worry about contributing to the family budget, or making extra money for myself. That changed in the summer of 1963.

It was near the end of my first year at St. Bernard High School that my father overheard a conversation at the neighborhood barbershop. The owner of a Thrift Bakery nearby was complaining to the barber about his son, who was no longer interested in working as a stock and box boy at the store. He bemoaned the fact that young people didn’t appreciate the value of work, and how annoying it was to search for good employees. Over my mother’s objections, my dad told me about this conversation and the opportunity to find a summer job. The following morning, I introduced myself to Mr. Farkas at the store and starting working that same evening as a stock boy.

I think my life-long aversion to manual labor stemmed from that thrift store experience. I quickly discovered that I couldn’t stay focused with boringly repetitious and strenuous actions, and I found it painful to be pleasant when customers were rude or belligerent. While learning the tricks of stocking and bagging were intriguing at first, and getting paid was satisfying, those novel emotions soon faded with the reality of long, tedious hours, and little mental stimulation. I must have been telegraphing my growing indifference to this job of stocking bakery goods, and bagging them for old ladies and men who didn’t drive, because I was replaced a few weeks after John F. Kennedy’s assassination in Dallas. I remember getting home from school on the Friday afternoon he was shot, feeling very listless and depressed. The prospect of leaving the security and warmth of my family, who were grouped around the TV set watching events unfold that evening, to stock bread, baked goods, and groceries was too much for me, and I called in sick. I was fired a few weeks later. That first employment experience converted me to my mother’s philosophy that high school students should dedicate themselves to being full time students with healthy side interests. I made the Honor Roll each year, and expanded my list of extra-curricular activities to include soccer as a junior and senior, and joining the school newspaper my final year. I didn’t seriously entertain the notion of work again until a new set of priorities developed during my freshman year in college in 1967.

During my years in high school, I had been satisfied in accepting a minimal allowance from my mom and dad whenever I needed money to go out with friends on Fridays, and a rare Saturday date with a girl. That changed at UCLA. Suddenly friends and fellow classmates had social lives, money, and jobs. College meant lots of flexible time and a strong imperative to be independent, socially active, and self-reliant. All my friends had part-time jobs: Wayne worked at the Loyola University library, Greg worked at an ice cream parlor, and Jim worked downtown. I was still somewhat reticent about working during the school year, but a long winter break offered a great compromise. I visited the UCLA Placement Center in October, and by the end of the month I had interviewed at Sears and Roebuck and was scheduled to work at their Santa Monica store on Colorado Avenue for the holidays. While retail sales wasn’t as boring and repetitive as grocery work, part-timers had very limited opportunities at Sears. Commissioned employees hogged all the high-priced, exciting merchandise, and the seasonal help was relegated to filling in for regular employees, and ringing up the humdrum sales. Every now and then I would meet an interesting co-worker or make a big sale, but retail was too much of a cutthroat business to give me any satisfaction. By the end of Christmas vacation I saw the wisdom of having a part-time job – but only one that was more challenging and paid better than minimum wage.

Thinking back on those years after high school, and how many of my uncles and aunts, and even teachers, waxed nostalgically over what a pivotal role high school played in their lives, I’m struck dumb. High school – really? There must have been a major generational gap in our thinking, because high school never had a transformational effect on me. I feel as if I barely survived high school. The first two years at St. Bernard High School were isolating and emotionally painful, and intellectual growth and stimulation only occurred in my English and Literature classes, and with the faculty sponsor of the school newspaper. College was the major crossroad in my life. The university experience opened the door to academic and intellectual growth and excitement, lifelong friendships, and my initiation into the true World of Work. I suppose that’s why I really wanted to write this personal essay about my earliest work experiences. It wasn’t so much to recall Charlie’s paper route, the Thrift Bakery, or Sears and Roebuck – it was to remember how much I enjoyed working as a part-time operator at ADT during my years in college. It’s the job that comes to mind whenever I hear Van Morrison’s song, Cleaning Windows. ADT was an acronym for American District Telegraph Company, the foremost burglar and fire alarm Company in the United States.

With the advent of summer vacation, my friends and I were seriously looking for better jobs at the end of our freshman year in college. We were desperately in need of cash to supplement our tuition and book costs, and for spending money. We had worked for minimum wages in short-term positions in department stores, ice cream parlors, and university libraries, and were now looking for a better paying summer job that we could convert into regular, part-time employment. We had applied at the U.S. Post Office, but so had half of the male student population of our respective colleges. Our best bet seemed to be our high school friend, Jim. He already worked at ADT Alarm Company. When he described his work to us, it sounded grown-up, and it paid well. What could be more important than monitoring fire and burglar alarms, and protecting life and property? After hounding Jim for weeks about employment opportunities there, he told us that ADT was accepting summer applicants. We applied and were quickly hired. That summer, the four of us, working on different shifts, were employed at ADT. Greg worked there for one year, Wayne for 2 or 3, and I stayed, off and on, for 9 years, from 1967 to 1976. Jim made a career of ADT, working there 44 years, and retiring in April of 2010. Even Jim’s younger brother, John, would eventually join us at ADT for a year or so after two tours of duty in Vietnam. My time at ADT included some of the best parts of my life. It was the first job that REALLY mattered. At the time I dismissed it as part-time work, a way of earning money on my journey to a real profession. But I actually learned more about life, conflict, and real people in that confined work place, than in all 5½ years at UCLA as an undergraduate and graduate student. I learned from military veterans who were always curious about what I was studying in college. I worked with, and learned from, men and women of different ages, ethnicities, and educational levels. These were people I’d never experienced before. At ADT, I earned a fine wage, met interesting people, and felt competent at performing an important job. My only regret is that I never communicated my thanks to ADT, and the men and women who taught me so much, before the operation evolved, changed, and eventually disappeared from the form I knew in the 1960’s and 70’s.

ADT was an essential “downtown” job, far away from the pastoral setting of family, home, and school. The ADT office and operational center was housed in the old Western Union building that was once located on Flower Street, between Wilshire Blvd, and 7^th Street. From there, one could easily walk to the Original Pantry Café on Figueroa for lunch or dinner, or explore the California Club and Central Library on Flower. I soon learned however, that many of the adult alarm operators and guards preferred hanging out at the Figer 8, a dive bar just around the corner at Figueroa and 7^th, which has also been torn down. ADT’s burglar alarms and fire supervision was a 24-hour operation, with three working shifts. My first summer there, Jim and I worked different days on the Swing shift, from 4 pm to midnight, while Wayne and Greg worked Graveyard, from midnight to 8:00 am (strangely, that schedule worked for them). Except for the Day shift, which only comprised 4 or 5 workers, Swing and Graveyard operations required 7 to 9 operators, and a supervisor and radio dispatcher who assigned and monitored armed station guards to trouble-calls and alarms. Operators like my friends and I were primarily responsible for electronically monitoring the fire and security alarms of businesses and premises on two types of silent burglar alarm systems: Direct Wire (DX) and Circuit burglar alarms (CBA). My job was to operate a section of a bank of DX alarm boxes mounted on the length of the wall of a large office. Each box represented a store, which on closing sent an electronic impulse that triggered a beeping signal with flashing lights indicating that the alarm system at the store was active and ready for monitoring. A flip of two toggle switches on my end would silence the lights and sounds and arm the security system. It sounded very orderly, but beginning at about 4:30 pm, and lasting for 3 to 4 hours, the sedate office setting would explode into a cacophony of noises, sounds, and frantic activity. The blinking red and white lights, beeping DX alarms, clattering CBA registers, ringing telephones, and the shouts of men calling out numbers, names, and instructions quickly built up in volume and energy during those hours. In the midst of this scene, with operators scurrying about in measured rhythm with this structured pandemonium, I began working at ADT.

CPA Operation Ctr

It was only after that first summer, when I was retained to work a regular 16-hour weekend Swing schedule during the school year, that I finally learned enough of the skills, vocabulary, and responsibilities necessary for the job. Working on Saturdays and Sundays, I finally relaxed enough to begin observing the men and women around me. At first they treated me with mild curiosity as they advised me about the procedures I was trying to perfect. But since I was now a regular, and one of very few college students, they spoke more freely to and around me, even allowing me to ask stupid questions. All the guards, and many of the male operators were military veterans from WWII, Korea, and Vietnam. Many had transitioned from the armed forces into the security field hoping to become policemen or sheriff deputies. For the most part these were mature men and women with families and children, and this was their full time employment. At first it was strange hearing tales of medical crisis, matrimonial conflicts, and financial woes from young and middle-aged men and women. This was the late night talk and early morning gossip that occurred in the adult world I was seeing for the first time. I was re-introduced to the phenomenon my father once practiced of men working two jobs. Many WWII vets like Mr. Riley, the father of Jim and John, worked full time at the Gas Company down the street, and then 4 hours each night at ADT as a service operator like me. In another vein, where I was uncomfortable questioning my father about his youthful WWII experiences, I could endlessly quiz Steve Grabowski, a former guard who had been assigned to the office operation, about his time in Great Britain, serving as a tail gunner in a bomber airplane flying over France and Germany. The adult women I worked with at ADT were nothing like the young coeds I was meeting and interacting with in college. Many were African American women with children, and heads of single-parent households. They were smart, responsible, and hardworking, but when I asked why they hadn’t pursued a college education, they just scoffed at my fanciful notions and shook their heads. They couldn’t afford such foolishness, they said. I’m embarrassed to admit now, but at the time I found myself assuming a very aloof and superior distance from these men and women. I was not like them, I assured myself, laboring away as high school educated guards and alarm operators. I was a professional-in-progress – a college student, exploring all the possible intellectual avenues ahead of me. Whenever they asked me what I intended to do with my college education, I’d say I planned on becoming a lawyer, a diplomat, or a college professor. But I suspect that they knew that our lives rarely turn out as we plan, especially since the Vietnam War was escalating in the late 60’s, and my draft lottery number was too low to exclude me from being called up when my college deferment ended.

Those weekend hours worked ideally for me throughout my college days. Alarm activity was always slow on weekends, so work was easy, and the schedule gave me plenty of time to study at school, hang out with friends during the week, and go out on Friday night dates. I was always offered 40-hour work assignments during my quarter breaks, so my salary helped cover most of the costs of my tuition and books, and still contributed to the family finances. Soon my brother and sisters were following my example and finding college jobs as they began attending UCLA. Arthur found work at a pet hospital/hotel, then later as a late-night office custodian, and Gracie worked at a nearby ice cream parlor. Stella, however, found the best job as a theatre attendant at the Centinela Drive-in, in Culver City. Even though she complained that she rarely had time to watch any of the movies, and the pay was bad, my task of picking her up after work allowed me to occasionally go early enough to catch the last movie of the night for free. Everything was going along smoothly in my life until I finally received my Notice of Induction letter from President Nixon on the eve of my graduation from UCLA in 1970. The draft and the Vietnam War changed the course of my life after graduation; but that is a tale for another time. For now, I’m just happy recalling those lost years on my resume – the years I worked at ADT. They reminded me of Van Morrison’s song when he joyfully recalled his youthful days, as a workingman, in his prime, cleaning windows.

Centinela Drive In

Make a space in your life for God.
If you can’t fill it now…
God will fill it in time.
Be open!
(Mrs. Nick, Louisville High School)

On a Tuesday evening, Louisville High School is a ghost town of dim lights, ominous shadows, and sad echoes of fading laughter drifting through deserted corridors. It is so different at night that I always think I’m in the wrong place. “This must be the convent down the hill”, I say to myself, “It can’t be the school”. Louisville is such a vibrant source of energy and light during the day, that I don’t recognize it at night. The only evidence of the lively girls who attend the school are the splashes of colorful posters and banners that festoon the walls and decorate the lockers. The night belongs to the sober adults and custodians who are here this evening, trooping down the semi-lit hallways, looking for the classroom of Mrs. Kathleen Nicholas. Kathy and I were there for an orientation about the Kairos Senior Retreat that my daughter Prisa would attend in three weeks.

We were part of the first parent cohort to receive this briefing. Prisa had purposely signed up for the earliest retreat date. She did not want a conflict with the basketball season that began in late November. I’d been surprised to discover that Prisa would not be joining us this evening. It was for adults only, and neither she nor her mother could explain why. Most Louisville activities promoted family unity and parent-daughter bonding, so it was odd that girls were not present. The somber mood of the evening was brightened when a medium sized lady with short, blonde hair met us at the door and introduced herself as Mrs. Nicholas, Prisa’s religion teacher and Director of Campus Ministries. Prisa had mentioned her name often, always calling her “Mrs. Nick”, and I was curious to meet the coordinator of school-wide liturgies, prayer services, and social service projects. I recognized her as a parishioner of a neighboring church we occasionally attended (Prisa was an avid fan of their youth choir and mass). She had a gentle, kindly face that inspired trust and confidence. Kathy had met her before, so as we walked into the brightly lit classroom, she engaged Mrs. Nick in immediate conversation. Standing next to them, I gazed out at the neat rows of glossy topped, student desks that were filling up with mothers and fathers. The men looked just as misplaced as I felt. I did not know what to expect tonight. I could tell Prisa was excited about this particular retreat, but I wasn’t sure why. I could not lose the nagging feeling that I was missing something. I even developed a mild paranoia that the term Kairos was feminine code for an initiation rite that women kept secret. I voiced this insecurity to Prisa once, as I was driving her home from basketball practice. Her amused laughter disarmed and assured me that this was not some Daughters of Eve conspiracy, promulgated at single sex, Catholic high schools.

In my recollections of that evening in 1997, Mrs. Nick’s talk went something like this (SPOILER ALERT! Stop reading if you are a high school student who has yet to experience your Senior Kairos retreat. Save the essay for a graduation treat.):

“Good evening, ladies and gentleman” she began. “Welcome to the parent orientation to Kairos. Some of you may have heard about it, and your daughters may have shared their speculations. I need to tell you that seniors who go through the experience are specifically directed to NOT TALK ABOUT IT with their fellow seniors or underclassmen. This may seem secretive, but it is vital. Kairos is a three day journey that must be experienced first hand. Talk or speculation only diminishes the power of Kairos. So, I would ask you to put aside the things you may have heard. What I tell you tonight is the essential information that you need to know”.

Mrs. Nick had my full attention. Her quiet introduction had hushed the room, cutting right through my paranoia, and heightening my awareness. I did not want to miss a word.

“Kairos is the culmination of the retreat ministry at Louisville. The freshman, sophomore, and junior retreats laid the groundwork for this moment. Kairos is an ancient Greek word meaning the “right or opportune moment”. It signifies “a time in between”, a moment of undetermined length in which “something special happens”. At Louisville, we believe that this senior retreat is special. It takes place at a pivotal moment in the lives of your daughters. Just as they are planning to graduate, leave high school, and move on to college, we want them to pause, clarify, and deepen their relationship with God, family, and friends. The retreat provides the place and the time for a spark to ignite something special between your daughters and God. Kairos is an awakening event in their Christian life. Prayer and Sacraments are an essential part of the retreat, as well as the retreatants involvement in discussions and group exercises. We believe that Kairos is especially powerful because it operates on a peer-to-peer ministry model, with last year’s graduates and current student body officers leading the interactions and explorations. They hear girls they recognize and know talk about faith, prayer, Kairos, and college. This retreat is a 3 day journey, and it is held at Mater Dolorosa Retreat Center in Sierra Madre. The girls may not leave the retreat with all of life’s answers, but they will have a greater awareness of who they are and where they are going. It is a powerful, powerful, experience”.

No questions interrupted Mrs. Nick’s elaborate description of the itinerary and events of the three days. She was doing a good job of impressing us with the uniqueness of the occasion, and its impact on our daughters. Then she brought us into the picture.

“The reason you are here tonight, without your daughters, is because each of you play a major role in the retreat. After dinner, on the second night of Kairos, we gather to discuss God’s Love and Grace as manifested through the support we give and get from school, family and friends. At the conclusion of the sharing exercise, some handpicked parent letters are read aloud, as illustrations, and then the girls are directed to go to their rooms. There, they will be surprised to discover a packet of personal letters from parents, relatives, and friends, awaiting them. It is the climactic moment of the retreat, when they are overwhelmed by our interconnectedness and God’s Love. These letters are the key to the Kairos experience. I will need one from each family member; as many relatives as you wish, but the letters must be positive, supportive, and finished by the time we leave for Sierra Madre. The letters must be previewed and bundled before the second night”.

Now the flood gates of surprise and concern were opened and the questions poured forth. Mrs. Nick patiently listened, restated, and explained; clarifying the writing assignment, reviewing the details of the three days, and stressing the emotional and spiritual power of the retreat. I sat stunned and intrigued. The letter was such a challenge, and yet, such an unbelievable opportunity: to describe my love for my daughter; to memorialize my feelings for Prisa in writing at a crucial point in time. I was very aware of the ephemeral nature of this, her senior year. Prisa was about to change from a 17 year old high school girl into a young college woman, and I was afraid it would happen in a blink, if I took my eyes off her. I wanted time to slow down, so I could share every moment of the year before she went away to college. I’d had a preview of this transitory state, and how quickly childhood ends, when Prisa was in the 8^th grade, on the eve of her graduation from elementary school. It hit me when I saw her in the May Crowning procession. Seeing her so tall, elegant, and beautiful, it finally struck me that she was no longer a child; she wasn’t “Daddy’s little girl” anymore. I wasn’t prepared. All I could do was look at her gorgeous, glowing face, and, wiping the tears from my eyes, realize that the years had gone by too quickly. I had only glanced away for a second, and my little “chula girl” was gone. No longer would my arrival home be greeted by a beaming pixie who screamed in delight, jumping into my arms, and embracing me with all her might. I felt as though I had never adequately confirmed how much I loved her. I’m confident that I showed it, and said it, but I never WROTE it. Now here we were again, at another transitional moment. Only this time, my awakening was occurring in October, not May; and I still had the entire senior year to absorb every interaction I had with Prisa; to breathe her in, see her, talk to her, listen to her, be with her. Plus, I now had two weeks to compose a letter telling her how important she was to me, and how much I loved her.

I avoided that intimidating task for a week, because it seemed so impossible. How do you encapsulate Prisa’s 17 years of growth, learning, and development in one letter? How do you reduce your feelings of wonder, pride, and love to fit one sheet of paper? I’d also doubled the pressure on myself by deciding that the letter had to be good enough to be chosen and read aloud on the second night of Kairos. The letter had to be sincere, humorous, and exemplary. Ultimately, I used two guiding principles to get started: Write the truth, and keep it simple. I tried to stay apart from the jumbled mix of emotions I was feeling, and concentrate on a few key ideas and images that came to mind. In a few days, these ideas and images became my Kairos letter to Prisa. Kathy and I submitted our separate letters, on time, to Mrs. Nick. Prisa would be leaving for Kairos on Tuesday, November 12, 1997. We would not see her again until the following Friday night, when the parents surprised their daughters in the assembly hall upon their return to school.

Memories of that Kairos Orientation, and the letter I wrote to Prisa, came back to me last week when I read a June 26^th Facebook posting from my daughter relating the news of Mrs. Nicholas’ death. In it she shared a copy of Mrs. Nick’s Christian Lifestyles Final Exam Letter and Recommendation. Those documents, and the sentiments they expressed about the girls she taught, and who in turn taught her, were illuminating. They explained why I had been so moved by her explanation of the Kairos experience, and its importance to the faith formation of the student under her care. That is the picture I will always retain of Mrs. Nick: her gentle and loving description of Kairos, and the central importance of a Catholic education that stressed Christian love and spirituality in the lives of the girls she taught.

In writing this piece, I took the liberty of reprising a portion of an essay I wrote in 2008 (see Upstream Memories). That Kairos evening clarified why I was so pleased with the education Prisa received at Louisville, and the quality of Mrs. Nick's spiritual guidance. In the years that followed, I would occasionally catch glimpses of Mrs. Nick at her parish church and at the Religious Ed. Congress in Anaheim – but I will always associate her with that magical night in 1997 when she explained the wonders of Kairos, and encouraged me to write a letter of love to my daughter. Rest In Peace, Mrs. Nick. You will be greatly loved and long remembered.

Postscript: Kairos letter, November 5, 1997

Dear Prisa Girl:

It amazes me how difficult it is to describe how much I love you, and how important you are in my life. Ever since the Kairos experience was explained to your mother and I, I have been overwhelmed with nostalgic memories and emotions about you. How can I say everything I feel? How can I convey even a portion of your importance to me in this letter? The clearest picture I have is of us talking in the car while driving home from a practice or a game. Those are moments of eternal bliss for me: Listening to you discuss school, friends, sports, college, and the future. I wish we could drive on forever.

I have a confession to make. You were not adopted from gypsies. You were actually the only child that was planned. I remember the day your mom informed me that it was time to have a girl. “A boy was nice”, she told me, “but a girl is vital” (How wise your mother was!). I was prepared for you. I was present in the delivery room when you were born. I would sit in the old rocking chair, holding you in my arms and feeling so comfortable and satisfied – that I wished time would stop. I taught you how to play catch on the front lawn while discussing the questions of life. I took you for your first driving lesson in the Volkswagen.

My greatest joy has been watching you experience life. You are a wonder! I should also admit that I’m a little envious of your abilities. I wish I had your SAT scores and grade point average. I wish I could catch fly balls like you. I wish I could hit like you. I wish I could dribble and shoot a basketball like you. I wish I had your compassion and empathy for others. But since I can’t BE you; I’d rather be your father.

Here we are, at a major crossroads in your life. I wish I could teach you how to avoid the hurts and disappointments that come to everyone’s life. I can’t (actually I could, but I don’t think you would listen). Life will continue to be your own experience. You have a wondrous capacity for joy and happiness. I trust you, and have every confidence in you.

Dearest Prisa, there is only one thing I want you to know, and believe. You are truly Loved. There is nothing you can ever do, choose, or say, that will ever jeopardize that Love.

I love you,

Dad

Now here I go again, I see the crystal visions.
I keep my visions to myself.
It’s only me who wants to wrap around your dreams,
And have you any dreams you’d like to sell?
Dreams of loneliness like a heartbeat, drives you mad.
In the stillness of remembering
What you had, and what you lost,
And what you had, oh what you lost!

Thunder only happens when it’s raining.
Players only love you when they’re playing.
Women, they will come and they will go.
When the rain washes you clean, you’ll know.
You will know.
(Dreams: Fleetwood Mac’s Stevie Nicks – 1977

I had a dream of sorts on the morning of March 26^th that literally scared me awake. It was like being in the final round of a quiz show on death and nothingness, and I was suddenly overwhelmed with a series of questions about what happens after death. I was totally unprepared and I panicked, waking myself up.
“Do I suddenly go up in smoke,” I was left wondering, “like a snuffed-out candle flame? Do I remain conscious and aware, like a mind in a coma? Is death an instant state of now-ness, in which my consciousness is finally freed from its physical shell, past attachments, and fading memories?”
Yet, even in the midst of this fearful quizzing, I knew that these worries were no strangers to me. I had been to that questioning dream-place before.

I had another dream about death many, many, years ago, when I was going to college and living at home with my mom and dad. I must have been 18 or 19 years old at the time, and slept in a large back bedroom with my brothers, Arthur, Eddie, and Alex. My dream started with the sensation of floating. In the dream my body was weightless and buoyant. I remember soaring around my house and neighborhood, and then gliding over the Marina del Rey Harbor and along the Santa Monica Bay coast. At some point it occurred to me that I could probably fly to heaven and seek out God. How and why this absurd notion popped into my head is no longer clear. All I remember was thinking that it was a great idea. I’d developed considerable skill and dexterity in my flying ability and I was confident I could do it. I would find God! Then the first of a series of paradoxical maneuvers commenced. Instead of taking off straight into the heavens like a rocket, I went flying across the country instead, passing deserts, mountains, rivers and cities. I traveled eastward, toward the darkening sky, away from the sinking sun at my back. Soon only pinpoints of light were visible in the stygian blackness below. Suddenly my direction changed again, and I was plunging downward toward the center of darkness. I wasn’t falling, nor was I out of control; I simply dove downward, knowing it was the right way to go. But I never struck bottom. I kept spiraling lower and lower, until I sensed a change in my surroundings. I was now flying inward! A sense of peace and euphoria flooded over me as I suspected that my quest was reaching its climax. I was close. I would see it soon – Paradise, and the Beatific Vision of God. Then, Bam! I stopped – frozen in time, movement, and space. I had penetrated an invisible barrier of some kind, and slipped through a transparent membrane of darkness. There I found – Nothing! I was motionless in a Void – floating in a cold, shivering space of emptiness, with no light, no sound, and no sense of up or down. I had never felt such a panic of loneliness before. I was utterly and desperately alone.
“I’m dead”, I sobbed aloud, feeling the bitter dream tears coursing down my cheeks. “I’m dead and there’s nothing here.”

Student ID 1966

That’s when I woke up, touching my face for traces of tears, and looking around at the sleeping shapes of my brothers to see if my cries of despair had awakened them. All was silent and dark, with just a hint of redeeming daylight cracking through the window curtain. I never spoke of that dream to anyone, pushing it aside as Scrooge did in A Christmas Carol, calling his first nightly visitor “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese.” But the truth was I never forgot it. That dream remained, in the darkest recesses of my memory, assuming a Cheshire cat position there, and stalking me with a mocking, crescent grin.

Christmas Carol

Actually, this most recent twilight experience, which called up memories of that college dream, wasn’t a dream at all. In that Netherworld between consciousness and slumber, a flood of morbid questions just erupted in my head.
“Where will I go when I die? What will happen when my body stops functioning, and my breathing stops, and my heart comes to a halt? What will be left? Will the consciousness I experience when dreaming take over? How will it know what to do?”
Can you blame me for wanting to wake up? What else could I do with all those questions buzzing over me like a plague of locust? I needed to escape and analyze this dream. I had to figure out where it came from and what was the meaning for all of those questions.

La Muerte

At first it occurred to me that these ideas of death and dying were in my head because of the essay I had just written about my Great-aunt, Tia Petrita, and her generation of Mexican immigrants who settled in Los Angeles in the 1920’s. Resurrecting memories and images of Tia Petrita, Tia Ernestina, and my Great-grandmothers, Granny and Mima Rosi, had stirred thoughts of their funerals, and must have also unconsciously provoked some anxieties about death and dying. Funny, though, I always thought death was nothing to fear. I’d grown too comfortable rationalizing that death was merely a natural progression of our living experience. Blues songs described it all the time. We are born, and experience love, wonder, and joy as children; then suffer and mature as adults, struggling to raise a family; and finally, grow old and die. It’s the Circle of Life, the drama of living, the gift we were given by God. Being in close contact with a new life like my 2 year-old granddaughter Sarah has only confirmed its blessing, and given testimony to the wonders of childhood. At the other end of the spectrum are my mother and father-in-law, the Doctor. My mom will be turning 89 this year, and my wife’s father 94. They both provide an interesting preview of life’s Third Act, especially since they seem to approach it so differently.

Delgado Family 2

My mother is still relatively active and vital (using an exercise chair and walking, unassisted, on a daily basis to the end of the block and back), and no longer agonizes over her inability to manage and maintain a household. She was a stay-at-home housewife for 23 years, raising a family of 6 children, until my father died in 1971. As a widow, she evolved into the full-time Bilingual Religious Education Coordinator of her parish church until she retired in 2002. She lives with my sister, Estela, a retired elementary school teacher, in our family home in Venice, California. Although she regularly bemoans her declining faculties, she doesn’t obsess too much over their loss and her disabilities. She’s slowly losing her sight, hearing, balance, appetite, and strength. She finds it difficult to recall recent events, and the ones that do stick in her mind (presidential elections and the new pope), are mentioned over, and over, and over again. Her greatest fear is falling and precipitating a cascading series of medical treatments that would lead to long-term hospitalization. Yet she doesn’t seem to fear death. In fact, she often gives the impression that she would welcome it, as long as it did not burden her family. She’s thankful for her Catholic faith, and her staunch belief in the promise of Eternal Life with God. This is her Next Stage – the place where she will reunite with her deceased husband, her sisters, mother, and grandmother. On the other hand, I believe that the Doctor is deathly afraid of possible oblivion at the end of his life.

Villalpando Girls

(Disclosure Alert: In speculating about my father-in-law’s views on aging and death, I enter, as my wife would point out, highly questionable territory. Therefore, let me try limiting myself to just pointing out the ways I believe he is different from my mom, beginning with the fact that he is 5 years older).

When my mother turned 85, she agreed to take the anti-anxiety medication that her children and doctor recommended for treating her fears, her insomnia, and her excessive worrying over problems (real and imagined) that she was no longer capable of handling. By doing so, I think she finally resigned from the role of being the custodial parent responsible for family, children, home, finances, and emergencies. In short, she gave over control and allowed herself to be advised and cared for in her old age, primarily by her two daughters (who thankfully assumed the lions share of duties), and peripherally by her three married sons. In contrast to this situation, I still introduce The Doctor as a retired General Surgeon, forgetting that he hasn’t practiced medicine (especially surgery) for over 20 years. He’s sharp as a tack and has never given up control of his patriarchal domain, or agreed to take any form of anti-depressant medication. He has lived alone since the death of his wife, Mary, in 2006, and refuses to employ a full time housekeeper or cook. He maintains the part-time help that Mary originally hired long ago, and sees to his own needs by attempting to manipulate the timetables and actions of his 7 daughters (one of whom lives in Washington D.C.). The six local sisters juggle a schedule that involves daily visits and phone calls, grocery and shopping visits, and trying to keep tabs on his physical, medical, and mental wellbeing. The Doctor also has neighbors and friends who drop by to visit, bring food, and occasionally drive him to his golf club for lunch. He finally stopped driving himself at the age of 92. As opposed to my mother, however, a conversation with the Doctor continues to be a fully interactive and dynamic experience.

Lieut

I still harbor the suspicion that the Doctor carefully prepares a list of talking points whenever I visit him, because he always seems to have a new series of timely topics to discuss. He’ll mention sports and current events, and always takes care to avoid the political issues over which we might disagree (of which there are many). Although he gets a little miffed if I wander away from his agenda, by interjecting new subjects, he still astounds me with his ability to follow along and snatch arcane bits of information out of thin air. On one occasion when discussing sports over lunch, I struggled to recall the name of the redheaded, freshman quarterback at USC, who was known as a scientifically engineered and trained athlete.
“Oh,” the Doctor interjected, quickly. “You mean Todd Marinovich!”
“Yes,” I exclaimed with a laugh, trying to cover up my amazement.
However, despite this mental acumen, he continues one annoying tendency that, thankfully, my mother abandoned when her medication began. If I find him in a particularly depressed, or self-pitying mood, he will begin expressing regrets that at first sound like an inventory of personal shortcomings, but soon turn into a list of complaints about other people. He might begin by expressing teary regrets at not having been a better husband to Mary, or a better father to his two sons. Then his direction changes to complaining about his grandchildren never calling or visiting him, and how he rarely sees his great-grandchildren. Silence has been my usual response to this guilt-generating ploy, unless my patience wears thin and I retort that I never found nagging or whining to be effective parenting tools for changing behaviors in children or adults.

Todd Marinovich

The Doctor and I rarely mention religion and never speak of death. He is a Jesuit-trained, World War II era, Irish-American Catholic who followed the outward dictates and rituals of the Church, and counted many priests among his friends. However, he never talked about the spiritual aspect of our faith or the radical gospels of Jesus Christ. He seemed more comfortable with the Cold War mentality before Vatican II, when the Church preached that if the rites, rules, and dogma were practiced, Catholics were guaranteed the Kingdom of God. As opposed to my mother who relished learning and discussing the new Liturgy, Liberation Theology, and the Social Justice issues that percolated in the Church in the 1960’s and 70’s, these concepts had no relevance for the Doctor. While I suspected that he took the precaution of creating a will with his financial consultant, I doubted he had taken the time or trouble to itemize his funeral, reception, and burial desires the way my mom had. She stipulated the priest and deacon she wished to officiate the funeral and burial. She selected the readings and music, and chose the venues for the funeral and reception. This was the only area where vestiges of my mother’s need for control still manifested itself publically. I don’t think the Doctor had spelled out anything about his death, depending, I suppose, on the collective memory of his children to sort out his verbalized preferences and opinions about his funeral and burial. I always assumed that I leaned more toward my mother’s attitude toward death than the Doctor’s. But this latest dream-state episode about death and dying had unsettled me to the point that I was no longer sure.

Headstone

I was particularly puzzled that the dream of a 18-year old youth would reappear in a new form to a 65 year old man. It’s as if my unconscious, which first raised the question years ago, had returned to me in a dream to find out what I had learned of death.
Unconscious: “Tony, I’m coming to you again in the form of a dream. You’ve spent 46 years learning, loving, suffering, and living. So now tell me, what have you learned about life and death? What happens to you when you die?”
Tony: “Oh my God, you know what? I’m not sure! Over all, 65 years of living has been fantastic! Meeting, loving, and being with family, wife, children, and friends have been great. Paradoxically, the times of greatest learning came during periods of trials and suffering. Those were also the times when I felt most alive! I sought answers through formal education, job experiences, and spiritual training. Besides receiving solid Catholic elementary and high school instruction, I also received a great public university education. I independently studied all the religions, and searched for spiritual guides and training. Those were the times of deepest prayer and meditation when I experienced my closest connection with God. But I can’t tell you what I know about death, or what will happen to my soul and unconscious when I die.”
I was stumped for answers, so I let the matter simmer, until March 31.

Wedding Party 1975-8-2 B

I figure that of the, more or less, 62 Easter Sunday masses that I’ve attended in my life, I’ve only reflected on the true significance of that day on a handful of occasions. The religious importance of celebrations like Christmas and Easter are too often lost in the glitter and glamour of the commercialization that surrounds them. It occurred to me, though, as I sat waiting for the 1 o’clock mass to begin at Our Lady of Valley Church, that the key to my questions about death might be rediscovered there on Easter Sunday. However, when Kathleen pointed out who the celebrant was to be, I despaired and quickly started reading ahead. You see, Father Jeff says a speedy mass, but he can be a little too spare in his homily content.

The Collect went straight to the point about the significance of the day:
“Oh God,” the prayer began, “who on this day, through your Only begotten Son, have conquered death and unlocked for us the path to eternity, grant we pray, that we who keep the solemnity of the Lord’s Resurrection may, through the renewal brought by your Spirit, rise up in the light of life. Amen.”
This was followed by the First Reading from the Acts of the Apostles (Acts 10:34a, 37-43), where Peter explained,
“… How God anointed Jesus of Nazareth with the Holy Spirit and power. He went about doing good and healing all those oppressed by the devil, for God was with him. We are witnesses of all that he did both in the country of the Jews and in Jerusalem. They put him to death by hanging him on a tree. This man God raised on the third day and granted that he be visible, not to all the people, but to us, the witnesses… who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead. He commissioned us to preach to the people and testify that he is the one appointed by God as judge of the living and the dead. To him all the prophets bear witness, that everyone who believes in him will receive forgiveness of sins through his name.”
The Gospel was a short selection from John (20:1-9), in which he recounted the story of Easter morning, when, after being notified by Mary of Magdala that the tomb was empty, he and Peter ran to the tomb, which Peter entered. Then,
“The other disciple also went in, the one who had arrived at the tomb first, and he saw and believed. For they did not yet understand the Scripture that he had to rise from the dead.”

As I feared, Father Jeff failed to expound on the readings of the day, or how Christ’s Resurrection is the central tenet to our Christian faith. Instead of joyously proclaiming, “Christ is risen! Alleluia!” and explaining the significance of the Resurrection, he joked about giving us a 20-minute Easter Sunday sermon, or a quick homily. His short talk consisted of a plea to apply Christ’s love and patience to difficult people and situations in our daily lives. His example was when he was recently informed by the pastor that the third priest at the church had been reassigned elsewhere, resulting in his having to shoulder more pastoral duties. He characterized this doleful news, as “one of the many bumps in the road that we have to accept and live with.” Somehow, Father Jeff’s personal problems didn’t quite measure up to Christ’s trials during his Passion, and using the Resurrection as an example of overcoming occupational hardships seemed childish. But rather than sulking over this missed opportunity, I let the readings and the continuing liturgy of the mass settle over me, as I mused over two questions. What do I really know of death? I wondered, again. And what does my Church and faith tell me about it?

I vaguely recalled two tenets of death that Dr. Elisabeth Kubler-Ross cited in her book, On Death and Dying: 1) “… in our unconscious, death is never possible in regard to ourselves. It is inconceivable for our unconscious to image an actual ending of our own life here on earth, and if this life of ours has to end, the ending is always attributed to a malicious intervention from the outside by someone else. In simple terms, in our unconscious mind we can only be killed; it is inconceivable to die of a natural cause or of old age; and 2) Death is still a fearful, frightening happening, and the fear of death is a universal fear even if we think we have mastered it on many levels.” Slowly, the creeping suspicion returned that although I might be different from my medically trained father-in-law, the 94-year old Doctor, in my unconscious denial of death, I still shared his fear of dying and not being prepared for it.

Wall Street Cemetery

Father Jeff interrupted this train of thought by asking the congregation to rise, explaining that on Easter Sunday we would renew our Baptismal Promises, instead of the usual recital of the Nicene Creed, or Profession of Faith. These are the vows made by adult Godparents on behalf of the infants being baptized in the Catholic faith. I have spoken these promises on numerous occasions for countless nieces, nephews, and cousins. They were made at the baptisms of our own children, Tony and Teresa, and at the ceremony for my granddaughter in 2010. As a cradle-Catholic, I take too much of my Church and the Catholic faith for granted. Over time all cyclical religious events, rites, and rituals become routine, trivial, and mundane. Promises made for us at baptisms are soon forgotten, and prayers said at mass become automatically recited sounds without substance or meaning. The Creed is an essential prayer. It’s like a Mission Statement that embodies the important principles of our Catholic Faith. How much belief and practice do I actually put in the statements of my faith in the Nicene Creed? I wondered. I’ve said the words of the prayer thousands of time, but on this Easter day those principles were stated as questions which required my thoughtful consideration and response:

Prisa's Baptism 1980

Do you renounce Satan?
I do!
Do you renounce sin, so as to live in the freedom of the children of God?
I do!
Do you believe in God, the Father almighty, Creator of heaven and earth?
I do!
Do you believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord, who was born of the Virgin Mary, suffered death and was buried, rose again from the dead, and is seated at the right hand of the Father?
I do!
Do you believe in the Holy Spirit, the holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the Resurrection of the body, and life everlasting?
I do!

Two years ago I wrote an essay on aging and death called, When I’m 64. In it I struggled to link three disparate ideas; my age, which coincided with the Beatles’ song, my father’s death at 50 years of age, and my quickly growing granddaughter, Sarah Kathleen. I found the key to my immediate dilemma in a Pastoral Letter by my friend, the former Archbishop of San Francisco, Rev. George Niederauer. In the letter written after a 2011 bypass surgery and a difficult recuperation, he reflected on five lines of a poem by the 17^th-century Anglican clergyman, John Donne, called Hymn To God, my God, in my Sickness:

Since I am coming to that holy room
Where, with Thy choir of saints for evermore,
I shall be made Thy music; as I come
I tune the instrument here at the door,
And what I must do then, think here before.

On re-reading George’s letter, I found two reassuring ideas of death and transition that were not obvious in my Easter experience:

“What a lovely image,” Archbishop Niederauer wrote of Donne’s metaphors, “to connect our life here on earth with eternal life! Donne is not gloomy or saccharine or vague. Our life here is a practice session, a rehearsal, if you will, and we prepare for eternal life by living the life of Christ together here and now. We ‘think here before’ about our loving God and our relationship with him, and we ‘tune the instrument’ of living this life here so that it is in harmony with what Christ teaches us in the Gospel in our life together as Church. As I prayed about these lines of Donne, I realized that the rest of my life, long or short, is for tuning and thinking, and, of course, daily practice and rehearsal.”

“We get heaven wrong,” he concluded, “because we spend much of our life here as consumers, so we assume that we will be consumers in eternity. If God brings us to heaven then it is up to him to entertain us and make us happy always. But look at what Donne says: We are not going to an eternal concert where we will listen to God’s music, just as we go to an all-Beethoven or Greatest Broadway Hits concert here. Instead, we become one with God’s music, the profound and eternal music of creation, redemption, and holiness. We will not be God’s houseguests. We will be one with him in love. Of course this is a deep mystery, and there are no floor plans or previews of coming attractions available. Still, Jesus did tell a crucified criminal, ‘This day you will be with me in paradise’, and St. Paul, citing Isaiah says, ‘What eye has not seen, and ear has not heard, and what has not entered the human heart, what God has prepared for those who love him’ (1Corinthians 2:9). Finally, St. John tells us: ‘Beloved, we are God’s children now; what we shall be has not yet been revealed. We do know that when it is revealed, we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is’ (1John 3:2). That’s more than enough to get me to ‘think here before’ and to ‘tune the instrument here at the door.”

Labrynth

Not only did George’s letter clearly restate the Easter promise of resurrection and eternal life with God, but it also provided the needed metaphors to help me understand my doubts and fears. Strange, isn’t it, how some metaphors get to the point better than concrete explanations or definitions? Metaphors are the language of poets and mystics when describing the abstract, or the unexplainable. How else can one express the divine, the eternal, love, and God? We can’t, so we describe something else; an object, an action, or an idea, that conveys a similar feeling or emotion. A metaphor, as a Buddhist would say, is “the finger pointing to the moon”. They are the words and expressions that approximate the mysteries of the eternal and divine.

Thinking back on my two dreams, I saw that one emotion dominated both -- loneliness and death. I felt isolated and alone as a young college student, embarking on the long and winding road of adulthood, even when surrounded by brothers, sisters, parents, and friends. I again felt solitary and alone as an aging 65-year old man, witnessing the rapid weakening and deterioration of my mother and father-in-law, even when surrounded by my wife, adult children, family, and friends. We come into this world alone. We face our interior challenges, doubts, and fears alone. And we will grow old and die alone.

Dr. Kubler-Ross quoted Michel de Montaigne as saying, “Death is just a moment when dying ends.” She emphasized the need for preparing ourselves for aging and dying. I believe this preparation means more that just discussing it aloud with family and friends, and planning our wills, funerals, and burials. I think she also meant preparing for what happens next, visualizing the next phase – planning for when we become spirits. As a Catholic I’m taught to believe that this consciousness is my soul, a spirit created in the likeness of God. I believe this, and have faith in it. However, I also realize that I have become very disconnected from this soul, this consciousness, this me that is my real self. I’ve treated it like a visiting aunt or uncle who drops by occasionally to help me write, jog, cycle, or meditate. I don’t think death is untimely for the people who die. It’s untimely for the living; the people left behind after someone else’s death. Survivors often feel abandoned by the deceased, who they miss and long for. My dreams hinted at the possibility that as our bodies age and begin to fail, the soul, or unconscious, becomes uneasy, and more aware of its fears of pending death.

9/11 Memorial at the Pentagon

I now believe I was actually on the right track with my first impulsive response above to my Unconscious. Death is a certainty, but what happens next is Mystery. Every religion, and all the saints, bodhisattvas, gurus, and mystics struggle at describing the unimaginable. Once, I studied their lives, writings, and sayings, and I practiced prayer and meditation. But I stopped. I stopped investigating Buddhism and Hinduism. I stopped reading the books, listening to the audio tapes, and viewing the videos of Anthony de Mello, Thomas Merton, Richard Rohr, and the medieval saints and mystics, St. John of the Cross, St. Teresa of Avila, and Miester Eckhart. I shelved the mystical book, The Cloud of Unknowing, and closed that chapter of my life. I stopped these practices because I had finally come to a point in my life when I felt loved, satisfied, and happy. I was smug in the belief that I had faced the challenges and struggles of adulthood, leadership, and success, and overcome my loneliness and fears of failure. So I replaced prayers with my journals and jogging, and writing substituted for meditation. Then I turned 65 and my dreams returned.

Amitabha Buddha and Bodhisattvas

I welcome George’s images of our life here on earth as a practice session, a musical rehearsal for the next stage, when we will die and become one with God’s music. It’s a more elegant and poetic way of saying “I believe in the holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the Resurrection of the body, and life everlasting”. That concise statement acknowledges death and resurrection, but implies that we will be instantly changed from conscious mind to enlightened soul. My dreams aren’t quite sold on the idea that the transition from mind to spirit will happen that fast, and I don’t think it can be taken for granted. I love life; I treasure the people I love; and I would be loath to give them up. I anticipate that death would be a difficult transition for me, unless I am better prepared. I also believe that at the moment of death, the soul remains – somewhere, for a time. I can’t guess how long this period of transition lasts. The Buddhist Tibetan Book of the Dead claims that this period of adjustment lasts from two to five days, or until the spirit sorts itself out in one of six realms. Like Dr. Kubler-Ross’ “preparations for death”, and John Donne’s “tuning the instrument at the door”, and “thinking” before entering, I’ve come to the conclusion that we need to be ready for what happens next. We need to welcome death as a friend, and visualize the next phase – anticipating the moment we become spirits. I think my mom is doing this, in her fashion, and I hope that the Doctor will begin soon. As for me, I need to reopen my spiritual library, and resume my unfinished studies. I need to get back to the practice of meditation, reading, reflection, and prayer. I think this will quiet my dreams and get me back to “tuning my instrument”, and “thinking”, in metaphorical terms, about the unfinished journey that leads “to that holy room” where I “shall be made Thy music”.

Hymn to My God

Bonito León Guanajuato
Su feria con su jugada
Ahí se apuesta la vida
Y se respeta al que gana
Allá en mi Leon Guanajuato
La vida no vale nada.

Lovely León Guanajuato
Her festival with all its gaming
There life is bet on
And the winner is always respected.
There in my León Guanajuato
Life is worth nothing.
(Camino de Guanajuato: Jose Alfredo Jimenez, 1926-1973)

During the first week in March I received a large manila envelope from my cousin Raul, a fire captain in Seattle. I immediately assumed he had sent me another copy of an article he’d written for a firefighting journal or magazine. I put the packet aside and didn’t get around to opening it until a week later. To my surprise a smaller manila envelope dropped out, along with a handwritten note, dated March 1, 2013:

“Hey Toñito,” it began, using my childhood nickname. “¿Como estás, ese? ¡Vato! Hope all is well. We just moved. Since leaving Lake Tapps Island (where you visited), we moved into a waterfront condo in Seattle. It flooded in the last major storm. The owners decided to sell, so now we are in a waterfront condo a block away (actually it is an apartment). But every time we move, we are forced to get rid of more and more stuff. Declutter!!! Anyway – came across these documents in an iron box I had for years. It’s all stuff related to Tia Petra, “Petrita”. I believe she was married to Poppy Chucho’s brother. I remember her! She had a raspy voice (probably from years of smoking). She used to live in Chinatown on Ord Street. Since you are the new Delgado historian – I thought you might like them. So here you go. I do not want them back. No one else knows they exist, so if you don’t want them – you can toss them. Take care. Hello to your bride. Tootis (Raul’s childhood nickname).”

Curious about what Raul (Tootis) had sent, I opened the manila envelope and inspected the myriad documents and notes that came cascading out:

1) There was a U.S. Social Security Insurance letter for Petra Ruiz Delgado, dated April 13, 1955.
2) An American Naturalization certificate for Petra Ruiz Delgado, dated February 21, 1955.
3) A Death Certificate for Alberto Carpio Delgado, her husband, dated October 20, 1947.
4) A document from the American Embassy in Mexico City, dated March 7, 1955, attached to a marriage certificate dated February 27, 1955. The cover letter stipulated that the marriage document certified the marriage of Alberto Carpio Delgado and Petra Ruiz on August 20, 1904.
5) A Mexican Civil Marriage document dated February 22, 1908, certifying that on February 22, 1908, Mr. Jesus H. Delgado, a 55 year old tailor, and Guadalupe Carpio, his 52 year old partner, married to legalize their union of 31 years, thereby legitimizing their 6 children who were present at the ceremony: Alberto, Enrique, Magdalena, Juan, Maria Merced, and José Jesús.
6) A receipt from the Panteon Nacional de Dolores (National Cemetery of Sorrows) indicating the burial of Elena Delgado, child of Petra and Alberto Delgado, in a leased plot for seven years, on June 28, 1912.
7) A Death Certificate from the California Department of Health indicating that Alberto Delgado, a tailor born in Mexico in 1883, and living in the United States with his spouse of Petra Delgado for 27 years, died in the L.A. County General Hospital of Infectious Neuritis and Respiratory Failure on October 12, 1947. He was buried in Calvary Cemetery on October 22, 1947. He was 64 at the time of his death, with a residence at 413 Ord Street, Los Angeles.
8) A U.S. Department of Heath Card certifying that Petra R. Delgado of 413 Ord Street, Los Angeles, was re-vaccinated for smallpox on February 1, 1956.
9) A small envelope containing 2 black and white passport photos of Petra, and two business cards indicating her current address as 2205 ½ Sichel Street, Los Angeles, 90031, with her telephone number.
10) A piece of an airmail envelope from Margarita V. Ramirez of Mexico City with two handwritten pencil notations in someone else’s hand: a) “Petra’s Age – She made her First Communion at the age of 10 in 1893. Therefore, she was born on April 29, 1883.” b) “Devoto de Purgatorio sent by Margarita V. Ramirez of Mexico on October 17, 1956.”
11) An empty legal sized envelope with notations of several dating errors (sic), written on the front: “Metropolitan Insurance Policy of Tia Petra – Petra was insured on July 31, 1933 at the age of 40 years of age (sic). The insured was born in 1893 (sic) and in 1972 she will be 79 years old (sic), with 39 years of coverage.

Alberto & Petra's Marriage Certificate 2

“Tia Petrita”, I said aloud, gazing wistfully over the documents I had spread out in front of me. “I haven’t thought of her in over 50 years.” Old, worn, and faded images and scenes of Tia Petrita slowly started returning. She was a tiny, bell-shaped woman, draped in black dresses and shawls, and always moved slowly and carefully. She usually wore a dark, lacy veil, covering her tightly bound grey and white hair. I had forgotten how she sounded until Raul’s remark about her raspy voice called up the memory. I remembered her low, growling Spanish, and how difficult it was to understand what she was saying. She would appear at large family gatherings and holidays at the home of my grandfather, Jesus Delgado (Poppy Chucho), the younger brother of her deceased husband Alberto. My grandparent’s home was on Workman Street in Lincoln Heights, an old immigrant neighborhood in N.E. Los Angeles. Petrita didn’t own or drive a car, so when one of my aunts or uncles weren’t able to pick her up, I would see her slowly walking up Workman Street to join the family for dinner on a Saturday or Sunday evening. I had no clue where she actually lived until one Saturday evening I joined my aunt and uncle, Lisa and Charlie, on their way to confession at Sacred Heart Catholic Church on Sichel Street. On our way back, we stopped at Petrita’s lodgings to drop off a package or letter. She lived in a small bungalow or duplex on Sichel, across the street from the church. Her proximity to the church fit my childish correlation of her nunish attire and sparse, monastic living quarters. What struck me as odd, however, was her independence. She lived alone and did not depend on a family to care for her. A part of me saw this solitary lifestyle as very brave, but the other part was shocked at the incongruity. Tia Petrita had to be about 70 years old. She was old! All the other viejitos, or “old ones” in the family, were cared for in the homes of their grown children and their families. My great-grandmother (and my father’s grandmother), Jovita Serrano y Villela, or Granny, as we called her, lived in the home of her eldest daughter, Tia Ernestina Villela y Ornelas, in Boyle Heights. My mother’s grandmother (and my other great-grandmother), Rosa Maria Serrano y Nava, or Mima Rosi, lived in Mexico City with her daughter and my grandmother, Maria Nava y Villalpando, or Mima, as we called her. Tia Petrita, who certainly looked as old as Granny Villela and Mima Rosi Nava, lived alone. This fact gave her an air of mystery.

I’m sure that my mother carefully explained Petrita’s history and relationship to me and my siblings, but at the time, I really didn’t care. My world revolved around my 9 active and energetic aunts and uncles, most of whom still lived at home at the time. They were always around; talking, joking, laughing, working, or playing sports. Los viejitos simply showed up and hung out with other viejitos. My only duties were to “saludar a los viejitos”, or greet my elders, on my arrival to the Workman home, and despedirme, or bid them farewell on my departure. In between I played with Charlie, Espie, and Lisa. The last picture I have of Tia Petrita was at a Delgado family Christmas celebration on Workman Street in 1956 or 57 (that would have made Petrita 73 or 74!) There one can see her near the center of the tiered family photo: white-haired, long-faced, with sad, doleful eyes. That’s the last image I have of Tia Petrita.

In the days following my opening of Raul’s package, I was saddened by my lack of childhood interest and poor memories of “los viejitos” in the Delgado and Villela families. I dimly recalled the funerary rosaries and viewings of Granny Villela and Tia Ernestina Ornelas after their deaths. I remember my mother bringing me up to Granny’s casket after the rosary and telling me to give my great-grandmother one last “beso de despedida”, one last kiss of farewell. I remember Granny’s face looking pale and white, and her lips felt cold. During Tia Tina’s rosary, I spent most of the time playing in the back of the church with my second cousins, Paul and Petey. Embarrassingly, I have absolutely no memory of Tia Petrita’s death, rosary, or funeral. I hadn’t even given the matter a thought until now. I suddenly felt guilty and vulnerable to another emotional broadside from my son, Tony, accusing me of depriving him of important historical information about his Mexican-American roots and stories about the family’s experiences in Los Angeles in the 1950’s and 60’s. I was sufficiently troubled by this paucity of knowledge about Petrita that I called my Uncle Charlie (who is only 5 years my elder) to find out how much I had missed.

Delgado Family 1949

I reached Charlie by cell phone on a Saturday afternoon, as he was keeping an eye on his pet at a dog park in Pasadena. I discovered that he could add very little to what I remembered about his great-aunt Petrita. She lived for a long time on Ord Street in Chinatown, until moving to Sichel Street near Sacred Heart Church. She lived alone for many years, finally dying after Charlie had married and left home. He couldn’t recall the exact date of her death, placing it somewhere in the 1970’s. He remembered that she died quickly and quietly, and was buried in Calvary Cemetery alongside her long deceased husband, Alberto Delgado, who had worked as a tailor in Los Angeles. He remembered picking her up so she could join family gatherings and reunions, and then taking her home at their conclusion. His clearest impression of Petrita was that she took care of herself, working and living alone.

Alberto's Death Certificate 1

I suppose I was relieved to learn how little Charlie added to my meager knowledge of Petrita. He validated that she lived a quiet, self-sufficient, and solitary life, without drama or scandal. It was a life that would have held little interest to the children and teenagers we were in the 1950’s and 60’s. We both agreed, however, that her independent lifestyle was unique and admirable for a single, albeit widowed, Mexican woman at that time, with plenty of family members living in the vicinity. Our Tia Petrita was certainly not an Auntie Mame in her widowed lifestyle, but she was capable and independent, while maintaining her connections to the only family she had left.

Going back to the primary and secondary source material that Raul sent, I tried putting together a narrative of the life of Petra Ruiz Delgado. The legal documents seemed to have been requested, collected, and organized for the main purpose of apply for Social Security benefits as a naturalized, American widow in 1955, at the age of 72. Using these documents, and other printed and written artifacts, and allowing for some inexact and contradictory information in the dates and names provided, I constructed a reliable outline of the first Delgado immigrants to the United States in the 1920’s, and their settlement in the Los Angeles area.

Petra Ruiz was born in the city of Guanajuato, in the State of Guanajuato, Mexico, in 1883, to Nicanor Ruiz and his wife Josepha Rincón. She made her First Holy Communion there at age 10, in 1893. In Guanajuato, Petra met Adalberto (or Alberto) Delgado, the eldest son of Jesus H. Delgado and Maria Guadalupe Carpio. Alberto, a tailor by trade, like his father, was also born in 1883 in the nearby town of Tierra Nueva, in the State of San Luis Potosí, Mexico. In 1904, Petra Ruiz and Alberto Carpio Delgado wed in the Church of Santa Fe in Guanajuato, Mexico. In 1908, Alberto’s parents, Jesus H. Delgado (55 years) and Ma Guadalupe Carpio Delgado (52 years), took the unusual precaution of legalizing their union by marrying in a civil marriage ceremony, in front of their 6 adult children – thereby legitimizing their status and inheritance. In 1912, after 8 years of marriage, Petra and Alberto buried their sole infant daughter, Elena Delgado, in the Panteon de Dolores (Cemetery of Sorrows), in Guanajuato, Mexico, in a leased plot for the period of seven years. In 1920 (eight years after the burial of their only daughter), in the waning years of the Mexican Revolution, Petra and Alberto Delgado emmigrated to the United States. They settled in Los Angeles, where Alberto found work as a tailor. Alberto and Petra’s residency in Los Angeles quickly prompted a similar move by Alberto’s younger brother, Jesus Delgado, my grandfather, who joined him with his wife, Maria Villela de Delgado, and other members of the Villela and Ornelas families. These family clans took up residence in Boyle Heights, in East Los Angeles, after 1921 (the year my father, Antonio Jose Delgado was born in El Paso, TX). By 1945, my grandparents, Jesus and Maria Delgado, had moved their large family from Boyle Heights to the Lincoln Heights address on Workman Street, while Alberto and Petra lived on 413 Ord Street, in nearby Chinatown. In 1947 Alberto Delgado died in L.A. County General Hospital of infectious neuronitis and respiratory failure. He was 64 years of age, and was buried in Calvary Cemetery. Petra continued working and living alone on Ord Street until 1955, when, at 72 years of age, she applied for, and was granted American Citizenship and Social Security Insurance benefits. Sometime after 1956, Petra moved to 2005 ½ Sichel Street, in Lincoln Heights, across the street from Sacred Heart Catholic Church, to be closer to her brother-in-law, Jesus, and his family on Workman Street. In 1972, at the age of 89, Petra Ruiz Delgado died and was buried along side the remains of her husband Alberto in Calvary Cemetery.

Alberto's Legitemacy Certificate

As I was ending my Saturday conversation with my uncle Charlie, he suggested that I call some of his older siblings for more information and memories of Tia Petrita. He was sure that my aunt Lisa, uncle Kado, or aunt Jay-Jay, would have better stories to tell of Tia Petrita. However, the more I thought about it, the stronger grew my resolve to do no further research into her life. I realized that I didn’t want to record other people’s memories. I preferred to simply share what I had learned about Petrita, and encourage others to do the same. Brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, and cousins could call or email me, or comment on this blog if they wished to share stories and memories of Petrita. With all due respect to Raul, I am not the Delgado Family historian – but I am curious. I would like to learn more about Petra, and the early Serranos, Villelas, and Ornelas. I see so little of those family members now, that I fear funerals will be our last points of contact.

Sacred Heart 1951

I’m a strong believer in the significance of unintended consequences. I believe that the Hand of God is manifested through the unintended consequences of human actions – our own, and those of others. “Evil” actions will produce unexpectedly positive results, and well-intentioned decisions sometimes cause chaos. One of the more pleasant unintended consequences of receiving Raul’s letter and package was remembering how much I loved my childhood, and growing up in the warmth and loving embrace of a large, extended Mexican-American family in East Los Angeles and Lincoln Heights. The wealth of specific data contained in Petra’s documents compelled me to drive to Lincoln Heights and inspect those long forgotten locales. I visited Maria Auxiliador (Our Lady Help of Christians) the church on Avenue 20^thwhere my grandparents so often attended mass and Holy Week services, and I walked around the nearby remains of the old Pabst Brewery on Main Street. I walked in and around Sacred Heart Church, and found Petrita’s old address on Sichel Street. I stood outside the gated former residence of the Delgado family on Workman, and wandered around the block. I walked past the marvelously maintained Lincoln Heights Public Library on Avenue 26, and paused to photograph the historic Five-Points intersections of Avenue 26, Pasadena Avenue, and Daly Street. The only other landmarks I could find were the faded Florsheim Shoes sign on a building along Broadway, and the tiled sidewalk and pointed façade of the building that once housed the Starland Cinema Theatre. Finally I drove to the corner of Broadway and Ord Street in Chinatown, and searched the area where my Tia Petrita’s home once stood. It is no longer there, having been replaced by a mini-mall and apartment complex, but I could see how close she lived to downtown Los Angeles and City Hall. It suddenly recalled another scene when I accompanied Lisa and Charlie to that location, and they pointed to the revolving red light on top of City Hall, saying that my Aunt Helen worked there, rotating the light, around and around all night. I actually believed them!

Sacred Heart Church 1

So what are my last thoughts about Tia Petrita and her life in Guanajuato and Los Angeles? First of all, I’m grateful to Raul for having sent me these documents at this time. At 65 I can take the time to finally appreciate their significance and wonder about Petrita and Alberto’s lives. What prompted or pushed them to leave the city and country of their birth for the United States? Sorrow from the death of their daughter? Wanting to escape the ravages of a revolution that had degenrated into a civil war? Or was it simply a desire to create a new life together in a foreign land? I will never know for sure, because those first Mexican immigrants to the United States are all dead and buried. The first generation offspring of those Mexican adventurers, like my father, his brothers and sisters, and their Villela and Ornelas cousins were now Americans who were too busy growing up, learning, and living in area of Boyle Heights in Los Angeles to really dwell on those questions. My father, Antonio, and his three younger brothers, Alberto, Manuel, and Victor, attended Roosevelt High School, joined the band and ROTC, went on dates, danced and enjoyed the big band swing music of the times, worked with their father Jesus, and in 1942, enlisted in the Armed Forces and went to war. Those who survived the war would marry and raise families of their own. So all I can do is offer a theory based on the sad and poignant ranchera and mariachi songs los viejitos and their offspring played and listened to on their toca discos (record players). These were songs by Jorge Negrete, Pedro Infante, and Javier Solís. I looked up a classic ranchera by José Alfredo Jiménez, a native of Guanajuato, that I used to hear, and I found it very revealing about that first wave of homesick Mexican immigrants from the state of Guanajuato. In Camino de Guanajuato, Jiménez sang a song of love and longing for his beautiful and beloved home in Guanajuato. Yet the song constantly repeats the lament that “there life is worth nothing”.

Camino de Guanaguato 1

No vale nada la vida.
La vida no vale nada.
Comienza siempre llorando
Y así llorando se acaba.
Por eso es que en este mundo
La vida no vale nada.

This life is worthless.
Life is worth nothing.
It always begins with crying
And with weeping is how it ends.
And that is why in this world
Life is worth nothing.

Bonito León Guanajuato.
Su feria con su jugada.
Ahí se apuesta la vida
Y se respeta al que gana.
Allá en mi Leon Guanajuato
La vida no vale nada.

Lovely León Guanajuato;
Her festival with all its gaming.
There life is bet on
And the winner is always respected.
There in my León Guanajuato
Life is worth nothing.

Camino de Guanajuato
Que pasas por tanto pueblo
No pasas por Salamanca
Que ahí me hiere el recuredo
Vete rodeando veredas
No pases por que me muero.

Road of Guanajuato
That passes through so many towns
Don’t pass through Salamanca
Because there my memories ache
Take the pathways around it
Don’t go there or I will die.

El Cristo de tu montaña
Del cerro del Cubilete
Consuelo de los que sufren
Adoración de la gente.
El Cristo de tu montaña
Del cerro del Cubilete

The Christ of your high mountain
At the edge of the basin ridge
The solace of those who suffer
Worshipped by all the people.
The Christ of your high mountain
At the edge of the basin ridge.

Camino de Santa Rosa
La Sierra de Guanajuanto
Ahí me quedo paisano
Ahí es mi pueblo adorado

Road of Santa Rosa
The Mountains of Guanajuato
There I remain your countryman
There is my beloved country.

I imagine that my great-uncle and aunt, Alberto and Petra Delgado, and all the others of their generation sang this ranchera, as they worked, struggled, and built a life in this new land. They pined and longed for the tender beauty of Mexico and its people, but knew that in the Mexico of the 1920’s, life was worth nothing. Like the “respected gamblers of Guanajuato” they took their chances on a new beginning in a strange land. The documents Raul discovered among his belongings in an iron box are a testament to the struggles of our ancestors to live meaningful lives, and lives of value, for themselves and their offspring. God bless them and thank them for their sacrifice.

For more photos of Lincoln Heights, World War II, and the family, click on the links to my Flickr albums below:

Lincoln Heights Family

Our Family in World War II

2013-03-19 Lincoln Heights

I am a child in these hills
I am away
I am alone
I am a child in these hills
And looking for water
And looking for life
(A Child In These Hills: Jackson Browne – 1972)

If there’s a place you got to go,
I’m the one you need to know.
I’m the map!
I’m the map!
I’m the map!

If there’s a place you got to get,
I can get you there I bet.
I’m the map!
I’m the map!
I’m the map!
(I’m The Map: Dora the Explorer)

Last summer, Kathy recommended a book to me called, Some Assembly Required: A Journal of my Son’s First Son, by Anne Lamott, with her son, Sam Lamott. I had enjoyed an earlier book by Lamott called Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life (see – Learning To See) and Kathy thought this one would be equally rewarding. It described Lamott’s first year experiences with, and her reflections on her first grandchild, Jax, the son of Sam Lamott, and his girlfriend, Amy Tobias. I was curious about Lamott’s perspectives on the growth and development of an infant’s first few years of life. I’d gotten some good insights into writing from her previous book, and since I was babysitting my own granddaughter, Sarah Kathleen (AKA, Nena Chula) twice a week, I saw the book as perhaps a manual of sorts. A book that might teach me something I was unaware of, or provide some tidbits of advice I could apply to my fast growing granddaughter.

Some Assembly Req

However, as I progressed through the book, I grew more and more disenchanted with the narrative. Lamott spent half the time describing her conflicts with Amy, the baby’s mother, and her son, her ambivalent feelings about their not being married, and Amy’s homesickness for her family in Chicago, with the looming specter that she might take Jax and return home. The only part of the book that perked me up was a chapter labeled, “November 27, Letter to Jax on the Secret of Life”. That’s what I was looking for! I thought to myself. Here was Anne Lamott’s advice to her grandson about the Secret of Life! But even that chapter disappointed me. Anne didn’t provide a recipe or a skill that could be taught. Instead she seemed to imply that there was no secret that life was a struggle. The only help she offered was a metaphor that could never be appreciated by a child (or some adults, for that matter). However the idea of dedicating a chapter to her grandson, and attempting to offer him a lesson that would help him growing up, got me thinking. Perhaps that could be the topic of my next essay for Sarah – one in which I offered her my own answer to the Secret of Life.

Since last I wrote about Sarah six months ago (see Stairway To Heaven), a lot has changed. She has grown into a fully expressive 2-year old: a talkative, mimicking, energetic, and joyful child. She speaks in 3-4 word sentences (with an occasional Spanish word thrown in), and is quicker giving directions than taking them: “Come on, Poppy, let’s go. Vámonos!” I find it immensely entertaining discussing options with her and listening to her verbalize a choice. “Well, let me see,” she’ll begin, moving her eyes to one side, when I ask if she wants ice cream or Orange Julius as a treat. “I think ice cream is a good idea,” she’ll conclude, causing me to laugh and wonder from whom she’s picking up those phrases. Sarah repeats back everything she hears on television, videos, and from people around her. When I rise from a low-slung chair and my creaky kneels cause me to moan, “I’m getting old!” Sarah will repeat sympathetically, “Poppy old!” After watching a video of Dora the Explorer, in which Dora saved the Snow Princess from the Evil Witch, Sarah interrupted our background conversation by waving a drinking straw over her head. “I wave my magic wand”, she began, getting our attention, “and Zap!”

Speaking out.

Actually, babysitting is a poor word to describe what I do now. I play with Sarah, or I take her places we can explore together, or where she can play on her own, while I keep close watch. She gets all my attention all the time. I have no chores or work to do while I’m with her. All my time is devoted to her, and the morning and afternoon is divided into units of activities. These activity blocks can be put in any order or sequence, depending on Sarah’s mood or interests that day, and I’m rarely in a hurry to complete them.

Up-side Down Girl

After her parents leave for work, I start suggesting activities, or asking her for her preferences. They vary every day. I love reading to her in the chill of the mornings, wedging her warmly in the crook of my shoulder while I hold the book in front of her. My favorite books are the ones I read to my own children when they were her age: Hop On Pop, Go Dog Go, or One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish. Sarah responds the same way they did. She has learned the rhyme and meter of the stories, memorized the words, and can fill in the missing words when I pause for her response. Lately, however, she has introduced some new books that are more interesting to her, such as Dora’s First Adventure, Dora’s Super Silly Fiesta, and Dora’s Ballet Adventure.

Besides reading aloud, we also play with puzzles, blocks, Play-doh, coloring books, and drawing lines, circles and shapes on large sheets of paper with crayons and markers. I confess that my experience as a father and teacher sometimes pop up during these activities. I’ll interrupt her manipulation of the puzzle pieces to point out partial images they contain, asking her to what pieces they connect. I’ll emphasize the need for a wider base upon which to start the building of tall towers, and quiz her on colors as we draw in coloring books. Play-doh is a great vehicle for pretending to bake cookies and tortillas, or using cookie cutter instruments to make geometric shapes. We also go into the backyard to play with the hula-hoop and the playhouse, or practice catching and bumping large balls, and hitting teed-up balls with a bat. What I do all the time is talk to her. I speak regular English in compound sentences that contain as many adjectives and adverbs I can think of, while avoiding baby talk (except for words like “poopee” and “peepee”). I’ll even occasionally interject Spanish words or phrases, but the likelihood of Sarah becoming bilingual fades as I too often forget.

Scaling the heights

Sarah doesn’t watch a lot of television, so I use her favorite programs as incentives for major activities like washing, dressing, breakfast, or going out. They are great vehicles for linking together two or three activities: “I have an idea,” I explain to her. “What if we watch a little bit of Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood, and then we pause to get dressed. Then we come back to finish watching the rest of Daniel Tiger before eating breakfast. What do you think of that idea, Nena?” She usually goes along with my plan without too much negotiation. More importantly these programs give me a chance to rest and think about what we can do next. Right now her favorite morning shows are Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood and Sesame Street, and Dora the Explorer before bedtime.

Preparing and eating breakfast is still my most enjoyable activity. It has grown from Sarah’s passively sitting in a high chair, watching and listening to me mix and serve her meal, to her active and vocal participation. Now she climbs and stands up on a dining room chair so she can see and reach the kitchen counter. We then begin an instructional litany of questions and answers, interrupted by the procuring of utensils and preparing the ingredients.

Cooking Strategists

“What do we need first?” I begin.
“A bowl!” Sarah exclaims, pointing at a pile of plastic bowls of various sizes on the counter.
“What do we put into the plastic bowl?” I ask, handing her the larger of the containers.
“The oatmeal,” she says with determination, positioning the bowl in front of her.
“And what do we use to measure the oatmeal?” I continue.
“A measuring spoon,” she replies.
“And how many spoonfuls of oatmeal do we need?” I ask, handing her the spoon.
“Three,” she exclaims, raising the spoon in salute.
On and on we go, with more of her speech and actions involved. She measures and counts while pouring the oatmeal into the bowl. She measures and mixes the milk, and then stirs the ingredients carefully and thoughtfully.
“Mix it, Poppy!” She announces, when her attention wanes, handing me the spoon.
It’s an interactive meal from beginning to end, with a musical interlude included.
“Would you like to hear some music?” I ask, as she negotiates a spoonful of oatmeal into her mouth.
“Peter, Paul, and Mary, please,” she says, before finishing the spooning maneuver.
“Great choice!” I exclaim. “Now, let me just get the iPod out of my car,” I explain, preparing her for my temporary disappearance. “But, I’ll be right back!”
“You’ll be right back,” she repeats.
In this fashion she has already learned many Peter, Paul, and Mary songs that Kathy and I played and sang to our own children. She knows the words to It’s Raining, It’s Pouring, Puff The Magic Dragon, and Daddy’s Takin’ Us To The Zoo Tomorrow. The musical interlude lets me sing and watch Sarah as she eats, and she encourages me with her smiles, laughter, and occasional lip-synching.

Ice Cream Fan

My urgency about writing a new essay on Sarah arose one day in January when it struck me that the clock was ticking as to how much longer I would be babysitting. Sometime soon, Sarah would be enrolling in a 5-day a week pre-school program and become more interested in playing with youngsters her own age than with me. While the many photos I take of her may give a picture of what she looks like, and how she’s changing, and my videos can catch some funny or developmental moments, only words can really describe what she does and says. While thinking of possible essay topics, I remembered Anne Lamott’s book, and my idea of giving Sarah my own thoughts on the Secret of Life.

Three Gals on the Pier

Musing on ways to approach this intimidating concept while driving home that afternoon, I cast my mind about for a metaphor that Sarah might understand. That’s when the image of The Map, from Dora the Explorer’s television program hit me. Dora is Sarah’s favorite television cartoon character. Sarah wore a Dora costume for Halloween this year, and her room is littered with Dora dolls and paraphernalia. Each of Dora’s adventures or challenges begins with advice from The Map, a cartoon figure that resides in Dora’s backpack. The singing Map divides, or breaks up Dora’s journey into three stops along the road. To reach a goal or destination, Dora and Boots, her monkey friend and traveling companion, must visit three sites and overcome three problems or puzzles. The first time I saw this series, I immediately saw how this format taught many practical lessons to children. It taught them problem-solving skills, the need to formulate long-range action plans, and how to divide them into smaller tasks. In effect, Dora the Explorer was teaching Sarah how to think strategically – how she could achieve a long-range goal by reducing the plan into smaller, incremental activities. That was it! I thought. The Secret of Life entailed having a plan, and dividing the plan into smaller, easier-to-complete tasks. Using Dora the Explorer’s map as my metaphor I could give Sarah some good, practical advice for life that she might understand. I was very pleased with myself. My approach combined her favorite cartoon character with a formula she was familiar with. It seemed a winner, a sure way of teaching her something useful that she could apply later in life. However, there was something about this advice that troubled me, and I couldn’t at first tell why. Thinking that I’d perhaps missed something important the first time, I reread Lamott’s passage in Some Assembly Required:

“November 27, Letter to Jax on the Secret of Life:

“Dear Jax:

“Yesterday was your first Thanksgiving, and it is time for me to impart to you the secret of life. You will go through life thinking there was a day in second grade that you must have missed, when the grown-ups came in and explained everything important to the other kids. They said: ‘Look, you’re human, you’re going to feel isolated and afraid a lot of the time, and have bad self-esteem, and feel uniquely ruined, but here is the magic phrase that will take this feeling away. It will be like a feather that will lift you out of that fear and self-consciousness every single time, all through your life.’ And then they told the magic phrase that everyone else in the world knows about and uses when feeling blue, which only you don’t know, because you were home sick the day the grown-ups told the children the way the world works.

“But there was no such day in school. No one got the instructions. That is the secret of life. Everyone is flailing around, winging it most of the time, and trying to find the way out, or through, or up, without a map. This lack of instruction manual is how most people develop compassion, and how they figure out to show up, care, help and serve, as the only way of filling up and being free. Otherwise, you grow up to be someone who needs to dominate and shame others, so no one will know that you weren’t there the day the instructions were passed out.

“I know exactly one other thing that I hope will be useful: that when electrical things stop working properly, ninety percent of the time you can fix them by unplugging the cord for two or three minutes. I’m sure there is a useful metaphor here.”

It was only in this re-reading that I realized the truth in Lamott’s advice, and my own hubris in believing that I could find the Secret of Life. My biggest error was in making The Map the central metaphor for my advice. It wasn’t so much that the cartoon program was wrong for using a map, and encouraging children to use them for reaching a goal; but I was elevating the importance of the map or a plan over the people making the journey. As I’ve gotten older, I have come to realize that the goal of life is not so much in reaching a goal or destination, but enjoying the journey. The joy of learning, growing, and experiencing the adventure of life is the journey we are on. And this perilous road through unexplored regions is best taken with people we love and trust. The wisest step Dora takes in each adventure is not when she consults a map. Checking a map is a useful practice, but the wisest steps on Dora’s journey are when she takes along a companion, enlists the help of friends, and dances and sings her way along a route that will always be dotted with detours, accidents, and problems.

Rose Bowl Supporter

The more I thought about it, the more I also preferred Lamott’s metaphor of disconnecting in order to reboot our spirits or our lives when things are not working properly. I used to do this with long solitary walks, or runs through the slopes and parks of West Hills. I could achieve the same effect when writing in my journal in the lonely pre-dawn hours. Joseph Campbell called it his “bliss station”, a place, room, or time where he could get away from everybody. “This is a place where you can simply experience and bring forth what you are and what you might be,” Campbell wrote. “This is the place of creative incubation. At first you may find that nothing happens there. But if you have a sacred place and use it, something eventually will happen.”

Special Princess

There was another truth I discovered in Lamott’s book when I read it a second time. It was a quote from her son, Sam, that I had felt many times as a father, but was never able to express.
“We as parents have the illusion,” Sam Lamott wrote, “that we make our kids stronger, but they make us stronger.” I experienced that sensation with Toñito and Prisa. I couldn’t help but grow into their expectations and needs of me as a father. They made me a stronger, more thoughtful, and more compassionate human being. As I was teaching them, they were making me into a father. This is the same dynamic I see at work with Sarah and her mommy and daddy. Joe and Prisa have grown and matured along with their baby girl. I see it every morning as they speak and interact with Sarah. I hear it when they brief me on the condition of her cold and cough, how she awoke and ate, and what they’re planning on doing that afternoon together. They are no longer two newlywed youngsters experimenting with marriage. They are the custodians of a talkative, delightful, and fearless child. It’s a stressful and joyful experience that they manage to turn into play when they are together.

Mommy Minutes Under the Tree

So in conclusion, I would have to admit to Sarah that I have no clues about the Secret of Life. All I know for sure is that I’m still on a journey through life, going somewhere – and that I’m happy to be spending two days a week with her. On those days the two of us can play, read, and sing as we prepare and eat breakfast. We can travel to parks and malls and experience adventures with playground equipment, other children, and adults. Adult itineraries and maps may help, but the joy is in being together as we go through the day.

Day after day I must face a world of strangers
Where I don’t belong, I’m not that strong.
It’s nice to know that there’s someone I can turn to
Who will always care, you’re always there.

When there’s no getting over that rainbow
When my small lusty dreams won’t come true
I can take all the madness the world has to give
But I won’t last a day without you.
(I Won’t Last A Day Without You: Paul Williams - 1972

A few months ago I heard a song that stopped me cold. The lyrics shot right to my brain and glowed, as if highlighted with a fluorescent marker. Don Williams’ soft baritone painted an image that slowly materialized into a picture of my wife Kathleen and our life together. By the time Years From Now was over, I was lost in a hazy mist of memory and emotion, remembering how much in love I am with her, and how much I need her in my life – especially after almost 40 years together.

Until that moment, I could name only five songs that I’d call my love songs of Kathy. These are tunes that instantly created scenes, images, thoughts, and memories of her. Strangely, I can’t think of one that I’d call “our song”, or “our songs” during the years we dated and courted in the early 1970’s. Oh, don’t get me wrong; music was always the background score to our times together. I remember the rock and roll, and folk rock sounds of the 60’s and early 70’s ringing in my ears when I think of Kathy: the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Peter, Paul, and Mary, Gordon Lightfoot, James Taylor, and Carole King. Music was my excuse for getting romantic, holding her hand, wrapping my arms around her, and kissing her. But I hadn’t found the lyrics of any particular song to provoke thoughts of Kathy until after we were married in 1975. The first song to really create such an image of Kathy, and my feelings for her, was Mary Travers’ rendition of The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face.

We were in the Van Nuys Tower record store on Ventura Boulevard when Kathy’s brother Greg called me over to the Used Records department. “You gotta’ buy this one,” he said, handing me a used album with the picture of Mary Travers on the cover. “It’s her first solo album,” he explained. I was already a great fan of the Peter, Paul, and Mary trio, and agreed with Greg’s assessment that Travers was their best singer. I think I paid two dollars for the record, and couldn’t wait to hear it when we got home. It wasn’t until I flipped the record over and played the B-side that I heard the tune I associate with Kathy even today. I could have dictated every word, because they described exactly how I felt when I first saw Kathy’s face, kissed her mouth, and laid by her side.

The first time ever I saw your face
I thought the sun rose in your eyes
And the moon and stars were the gift you gave
To the dark and the empty skies, my love,
To the dark and the empty skies.

The first time ever I kissed your mouth
And felt the earth move in my hand
Like the trembling heart of a captive bird
That was there at my command, my love,
That was there at my command.

The first time ever I lay with you
And felt your heartbeat close to mine
I thought our joy would fill the earth
And would last till the end of time my love,
And would last till the end of time.
(The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face: Ewan MacColl – 1957)

A few years later, I heard the second love song on the car radio as I drove home from work. Paul Williams’ The Lady is Waiting was the sign-off theme of a radio program I listened to on my long drive home from West Hollywood, during our third year of marriage. We had just moved from our honeymoon apartment in Santa Monica to our first home in the San Fernando Valley, a few months before the birth of Toñito. I sang the lyrics to that song (as best I could) every workday for one year as I wound along the curving road of Coldwater Canyon and inched through the straight lanes of the 101 Freeway. I stopped only when I got a new job teaching at Van Nuys High School, which was only 10 minutes away from our home, and ceased listening to the program. The song went like this:

Brighter than sunshine reflected on water,
The smile of the lady is gracious and warm.
Though she’s a woman
She laughs like a child at play.
And the lady is waiting
At the end of my day.

Waits at the doorstep and says that she loves me
And wants me to tell her that I love her too
If I have troubles I know she will wish them away.
And the lady is waiting
At the end of my day.

Waiting to comfort me if I am weary
Eases my mind
Waiting to comfort me,
Ready to cheer me,
Ever so gentle and kind, and kind.

Sharing my secrets and wishing my wishes
A whisper of summer is there in her smile.
Softly reflecting our love in the things that we say
And the lady is waiting
At the end of the day.
(The Lady Is Waiting: Paul Williams – 1972)

That song made me a fan of Paul Williams – something few men would admit in the 1970’s. Williams was a pop singer/songwriter, the man who wrote many of the hits for Three Dog Night, The Carpenters, Helen Reddy, and Barbara Streisand. He came along just at the right time for me. Songs like We’ve Only Just Begun and You and Me Against the World, seemed to describe the new home and family Kathy and I were just starting. It was while listening to the three Paul Williams’ albums I purchased in 1974, that I also found Kathy’s third song, I Won’t Last A Day Without You. The truth of this song became apparent to me every day as Kathy and I experienced the problems and difficulties that came with new careers, raising two children, and dealing with unforeseen emergencies. I’d always imagined that the man and husband, with his “small lusty dreams” in hand, dealt with all the tough issues, while the wife and mother took care of the children. Well I quickly learned that I couldn’t handled those situations alone, and never had to. Kathy was always with me, leading the charge, standing by my side, or backing me up. We were beginners, lovers, and parents; we were a pair, a partnership – a marriage. Paul Williams’ songs best described those times and those feelings for me.

I don’t recall the exact sequence of events that brought Kathy’s fourth song to my attention. I think it was around the time of our 20^th Wedding Anniversary (1995), when we were driving home from Northern California during a get-away weekend. Toñito and Prisa were in high school at the time, and Kathy had borrowed a cassette tape of Eric Clapton’s Slow Hand album. I became a fan of Eric Clapton in a very roundabout way. While recognizing his early contributions to rock and roll in the 1960’s, I only really started liking his work, when I heard Tears In Heaven on the Unplugged album in 1992. My devotion to him only increased when I discovered his close ties to the Blues in albums like From The Cradle in 1994 and Riding With The King in 2000. Learning of my interest in Clapton, Kathy had borrowed an audiocassette from Liz Killmond, a daughter of her friend Mary. While most of the tunes in the 1977 album were only so-so, in my opinion, the lyrics of one song, Wonderful Tonight, had the same inexplicable impact as the songs of Paul Williams seventeen years before.

It’s late in the evening; she’s wondering what clothes to wear.
She puts on her make-up and brushes her long blonde hair.
And then she asks me, “Do I look all right?”
And I say, “Yes, you look wonderful tonight”.

We go to a party and everyone turns to see
This beautiful lady that’s walking around with me.
And then she asks me, “Do you feel all right?”
And I say, “Yes, I feel wonderful tonight”.

I feel wonderful because I see
The love light in your eyes.
And the wonder of it all
Is that you just don’t realize how much I love you.

It’s time to go home now and I’ve got an aching head,
So I give her the car keys and she helps me to bed.
And then I tell her, as I turn out the light,
I say, “My darling, you were wonderful tonight.
Oh my darling, you were wonderful tonight.”
(Wonderful Tonight: Eric Clapton – 1974)

The song merely described one evening in the life of a husband taking his wife to a party, but it was a facsimile of the many times I’d gone on a date, to a party, or to dinner with Kathy. Inevitably she would ask, “How do I look?” And I would always answer honestly with, “You look wonderful!” Clapton set those simple words and feelings to music and forever memorialized how I felt about Kathy when we went out.

I heard the fifth love song on December 30, 2007, at Catalina’s Bar and Grill. Kathy had arranged the evening of dinner and jazz as her Christmas gift to me (and us). I’d been captivated with Catalina’s ever since our first time there in April of 2003, when I took Kathy to celebrate the 30^th anniversary of our first date in 1973. The food, atmosphere, and music had been magical, and the songs performed by Peter Cincotti, memorialized the evening. In 2007 we heard another singer, Tierney Sutton, introducing a song by Allen and Marilyn Bergman called On My Way To You. Until that moment, I had not been particularly impressed with Sutton, but I was riveted by the words of the song. They seemed to explain the importance of every choice and every event in my life, even the negative ones, and how necessary they were for my meeting Kathy in 1973.

So often as I wait for sleep
I find myself reciting
The words I’ve said or should have said
Like scenes that need rewriting.

The smiles I never answered
Doors perhaps I should have opened
Song forgotten in the morning.

I relive the roles I’ve played
The tears I may have squandered
The many pipers I have paid
Along the road I’ve wandered.

Yet all the time I knew it
Love was somewhere out there waiting
Though I may regret a kiss or two

If I had changed a single day
What went amiss or went astray
I may have never found my way to you.

I wouldn’t change a thing that happened
On my way to you
(On My Way To You: Marilyn & Allen Bergman – 1987)

I was so moved by those lyrics that I wrote an essay about the song and posted it for Valentine’s Day in 2008 (see On My Way To You). I thought that song pretty much closed the door on any new love songs I would find for Kathy. The songs I’d chosen over the years covered so many aspects of our relationship, and my feelings about Kathy, that I didn’t think there would be any new revelations after 40 years – but then I heard Don Williams.

Don Williams was one of the country western artists who was in the last group of vinyl records I converted for my brother-in-law, Greg (see A Good Day For Me). Although I liked all Williams’ music and songs, I didn’t pay attention to the lyrics while I converted them to digital form. It wasn’t until days later, as I was driving home late one evening, that I heard the words on my cars’ stereo:

Years from now,
I’ll want you years from now.
I’ll hold you years from now,
As I hold you tonight.

You are my one true friend,
Always my one true friend,
And I’ll love you till life’s end,
As I love you tonight.

I know this world that we live in
Can be hard now and then,
And it will be again.
Many times we’ve been down.

Still love has kept us together
For the flame never dies.
When I look in you eyes
The future I see.

Holding you years from now.
Wanting you years from now.
Loving you years from now,
As I love you tonight.
(Years From Now: C. Cochran & R. Cook - 1981)

As the words and melody faded, I sat transfixed in the car. The singer told of the youthful exuberance of first love, the satisfaction of overcoming hardships together during marriage, and the hope of keeping the passions of love alive, many “years from now”. But I was luckier than the singer. I was able to be in the three places he described. I had expressed those same “lusty dreams” of keeping our love alive in the early days of our courtship, and when we raised a family. Now, as a much older man, the song filled me with the satisfaction of being able to look back at our life together and say:

“I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I loved you.”

Golf is the closest game
to the game we call life.
You get bad breaks from good shots;
you get good breaks from bad shots –
but you always have to play the ball where it lies.
(Quote ascribed to Bobby Jones, legendary American golfer)

I have a confession to make. I’ve been denying it to myself, and forbidding Kathleen from mentioning it in public. The truth is, I’m playing golf! Actually the word “playing” is an overly ambitious description of what I try doing. “Struggling” would be more apt. I’ve been struggling at the game of golf for over 4 years now, and, because I’m so bad at it, I haven’t wanted to admit to anyone that I own a set of used clubs and infrequently play a round of 18 holes. The reason I confess it now is because I just returned from another trip to Lone Pine, California with my three high school friends, Jim, Greg, and John (see Amigos). The purpose of this most recent trip was to get together and play a Second Anniversary Golf Game at the Mount Whitney Golf Club on Highway 395, along side the Eastern Sierras.

About five years ago, John, a retired firefighter and paramedic, convinced us to try our hand at golf, by playing a game at the Mt. Whitney Golf Club in Lone Pine. We had driven past it on many occasions, noticing the surprising lack of golfers on the verdant links with the dramatic view of the Alabama Hills and Eastern Sierras. However, no one, except for John, played golf. The three of us were still working at full time careers at the time, and lacked the background, equipment, or training to ever think about playing the game. But John had a counter for every protest or excuse we came up with. His most convincing argument was our prior history of always trying new experiences together. The chronology of our friendship is littered with new and previously untried activities and exertions, either as participants or spectators. We have gone mule-packing into Olive and Beetle Bug Lakes in the Mammoth Mountains, scaling Mt. Whitney, running in San Francisco’s Bay to Breaker Race, cycling 50 miles in the Ensenada-Rosarito Bike Ride, and skydiving at Lake Elsinore. Ultimately he won us over by taking charge of all the arrangements and logistics for the adventure, and doing all the work. He booked the rooms, scheduled the game, and provided everyone with the necessary golfing equipment that none of us owned. All we had to do was show up, divide the cost, and be willing to try a game three of us had never played before.

The afternoon I arrived in Lone Pine to play golf for the first time, the weather was already threatening. Ominous dark clouds were sweeping over Mt. Whitney and stalling over the Owens Valley. Yet even with the television weathermen predicting cold and wet conditions, we kept our talk on the positive side and made optimistic plans for the next day of golf. We were too close to Death Valley, we rationalized, and storm clouds always threatened but never produced. Unfortunately, despite all our brave talk we couldn’t change the odds. It was sprinkling as we arrived at the course the next afternoon. The grounds caretaker and clubhouse manager couldn’t believe their eyes at the sight of four bundled up novices walking noisily through the door and asking to rent two carts for a round of golf. They actually tried talking us out of this misguided adventure; probably more out of concern for their comfort and equipment than our health. But by that point we were not listening to practical advice or thinking rationally. We seemed to be completely in the throes of some compulsive death wish to finish the task we had begun. We were going to play golf, even if it killed us. The only foul weather adjustments we made were to wear hooded anorak jackets and we purchased pairs of golf gloves to shield both hands from the rain and cold.

I don’t remember too many golfing details of that afternoon. We bypassed practice swings at the driving range hoping to get in front of the fast approaching storm. We packed the carts with our bags and quickly drove off to the first tee. There were few attempts at serious golf that day, and no one asked for “mulligans”, or second chance shots – speed was the main consideration. There were few long drives, and none into the face of the quickening head winds and rain coming down the mountains. I pretty much pitched, putted, and dribbled my way along the first 3 fairways and greens. The only positive aspect of my short game strategy was that I didn’t lose a ball, which was easy to do with all the blowing leaves scooting along the grass. By the fourth hole the rain had turned to sleet and, with the winds, it was coming at us sideways. While our waterproof anoraks managed to keep our upper bodies and arms dry, our faces, hats, gloves, pants, and shoes were soaked and freezing. At the 5^th tee we surrendered to the weather and sped back to the clubhouse where the keepers greeted us as heroic fools. Huddling around the potbelly stove we tried restoring some feeling to our extremities by massaging our faces, flexing our fingers and toes, and bending and rubbing our arms and legs. Multiple shots of whiskey with beer chasers quickly renewed our spirits and soon we were soothed by a wave of inner warmth and satisfaction. I realized later, listening to the laughter and joking generated by our descriptions of the climatic conditions we faced to the manager, that I had lost all my previous apprehensions, self-consciousness, and embarrassments about my poor play. My fears of other golfers watching me miss or hack away at balls that sliced, dribbled, or didn’t move, had disappeared in the inhospitable weather we faced. No one saw us swing or putt, no one judged us, and we certainly didn’t play golf. The four of us had, once again, participated in an adventure.

After this single golfing experience in Lone Pine, I was ready to hang up my golfing gloves, return the borrowed clubs to John, and retire from the game. I only hesitated because of John’s advocacy for the game, and Greg’s encouragement. They argued that all of the arduous activities we used to engage in during our youth were quickly becoming difficult to maintain as we approached 60 years of age and beyond. Unless we were ready to surrender to old age and just sit around playing cards, golf offered a healthy option for maintaining our active friendship with travel, fellowship, and a modicum of exercise. Their reasoning was sound, but the fact remained that I sucked at golf and was not willing to invest time, energy, and money for proper training, equipment, and club membership dues or fees. Walking, climbing, running, and cycling were free, and I could still perform those activities fairly well. Playing golf was too hard and expensive.

We were at an impasse, but John, the originator of the golfing concept, with Greg’s support, never conceded defeat. John kept playing on his own and invited us to low-stress, spectator-free opportunities to pitch and putt at San Simeon Pines in Cambria every year. Jim was the only one to really drop the idea of golf, but his younger brother Jeff quickly took his place. I suppose after Jim dropped out, I became the most indifferent member of our occasional foursome. Greg and Jeff purchased clubs, paid for lessons, and actually practiced at driving ranges and public courses. I merely joined them once or twice a year for a game in Cambria, or at a local course for 18 holes. I was more interested in the comradeship than the game. I enjoyed the talk, joking, and laughter before, during, and after the games. However, an unusual thing happened during these last couple of years. First, I started watching how John and Jeff, the more proficient golfers, held and swung their clubs. Second, I accepted all their advice and encouragement. Lastly, by watching Greg and other beginners hack their way up and down fairways, I came to the conclusion that most people who say they play golf really suck at it. Since January of 2012, I made an effort to play whenever John, Greg, or Jeff suggested a game. I joined them twice at Westchester Golf Club, and once at Morro Bay Golf Club, Costa Mesa Golf Club, and Lost Canyon Golf Club. More importantly, I noticed that when I made an effort to go, my swing improved the next time we met. The ball traveled a little farther, flew a little higher, and occasionally even went in the direction I wanted. About three months ago Greg proposed a return trip to Lone Pine to welcome the New Year and play a commemorative game of golf at the Mt. Whitney Golf Club. Surprisingly even Jim agreed to come along. So we all marked the dates in our calendars and awaited the reunion.

On Sunday, January 13, John and I rendezvoused with Greg and Jim at our traditional midway point on the way to Lone Pine – Mike’s Roadhouse Café in Mojave. There we took stock of our provisions, equipment, and the weather conditions we were facing. At that particular time, Southern California was experiencing a peculiar cold snap. Temperatures in L.A. had dropped to freezing levels and the forecasts were for even lower readings in the Eastern Sierras and Owens Lake region. Jim and Greg were coming from Nevada, after spending a few days in Primm, so their clothing was particularly ill suited for cold weather. Likewise, John had not come prepared for such cold conditions. As on the previous golfing safari 5 years earlier, we put thoughts of inclement weather aside and enjoyed our reunion. We picked up provisions in Mojave, purchased some meat jerky in Olancha, and ordered Pizza for an early supper in Lone Pine as we watched the end of the Patriots-Texans football playoff game and then settled in to see the Golden Globe Awards on T.V.

The following morning, in an effort to lengthen the day and give the 23° temperature time to warm up, we made a number of travel stops. First we went to Elevation, a new sporting goods store in Lone Pine, specializing in snow and climbing gear and equipment. There, Greg and John invested in some thermal apparel, head and ear covering, and gloves. I had already come prepared with these items, but Jim was growing more ill at ease at the thought of purchasing more clothing or equipment that would probably never be used again. From there we took a short northern ride to the Manzanar War Relocation Center just outside of town.

For as many times as we’ve visited Lone Pine and gone to Manzanar, we always discover something new. This time we resolved to finally investigate a large, hanger-like warehouse that we always assumed to be a transportation facility, because of the numerous large vehicles parked around it. While taking pictures of the iconic guard tower along Highway 395, we also spotted what appeared to be 3 long wooden barracks that we’d never seen before. Manazar always struck me as a place of terrible beauty – especially in the winter. I’ve been to Lone Pine often enough to know that it is a harsh place, even with the modern comforts of shelter, heat, and plenty of supplies. On the floor of Owens Valley, between the Eastern Sierras on one side and the White and Inyo Mountains on the other, you boil in summer heat, smother and choke in the spring dust storms, and freeze in the winter. Why this valley was chosen to incarcerate over 110,000 Japanese-American men, women, and children during World War II is hard for me to understand. Walking through the three newly built replicas of those WWII detention barracks, bundled and layered as I was in thermal clothing, earmuffs, gloves, climbing boots, and a great coat, I couldn’t imagine how children and the elderly internees stayed warm in those uninsulated, wooden buildings. It was like walking through a long, wooden shed. The only place that generated any feelings of warmth and hope was the replica of Mess Hall Kitchen Barrack # 14. The interior rows of wooden picnic tables and benches gave off a shining communal glow in the shadowed light of the hall. Piped-in background sounds of clanging pots and clinking silverware added to the ghostly feel of this place. But it wasn’t scary or eerie; rather, it felt comforting – like an old memory of childhood. It was as if this was the one place where families and friends could gather; say grace before meals, joke and laugh about their children, and hope and plan for a better tomorrow. Looking through the west-facing screen doors and windows, one could gaze in wonder at the stark beauty of the desert floor and snowcapped mountains. Those summits had guarded this valley for millions of years as silent, icy sentinels, watching creatures of all kinds come and go, settle and die. During the war years they saw a people suffer persecution, captivity, and isolation in Manzanar – and yet those people endured and thrived. They could only have done so because of love, family, and comradeship, the same traits that kept my friends and me together year after year.

As it turned out, the large, grayish-green warehouse was not a Department of Water and Power annex or a transportation facility, but in fact a National Park Memorial Museum containing artifacts, photographs, and displays showing life in the internment camp. We ambled through the models, photos, and replicas, taking our time to get thoroughly warm before venturing out in the 30° weather. We ended our visit with a final stop at the Memorial Monument located at the westernmost edge of the camp, near the cemetery. There, standing next to the tall and white obelisk, with the azure sky and frosty mountain peaks of the Sierras as a background, we paid our respects to those who died in that camp and those who survived. Upon returning for our clubs at the Best Western Motel, next to the Lone Pine Airport, Jim opted out of our foursome and stayed behind. So the 3 Amigos, as we have on many occasions before, ventured forth as an intrepid trio to brave this commemorative experience – playing Extreme golf in difficult weather conditions.

This time a different pair of clubhouse managers couldn’t believe our request for carts and fees. One joked and said the carts wouldn’t run in cold. But humor aside, the two men advised us against playing all 18 holes and promised to keep the stove fire burning. In retrospect, the weather conditions weren’t as bad as the first golf game in the tempest. By 11:30 am, the temperature had climbed to a bearable 35°, and thanks to Elevation apparel, we were all properly insulated from the chilling effects of the wind and cold. We played in sweaters and earmuffs, wearing our jackets only when the icy, easterly winds howled through the fairways as we carted to our balls. In some respects it was a perfect day to be outdoors. The sun illuminated a crystalline clear afternoon, with blue skies and sparkling, snow crested peaks. My muscle-memory of prior golfing occasions did not desert me, and some of my drives were lofty, distant, and controlled. Even my slices were impressive. For the first time I was able to see my balls climb and then arc gently, in a wind-aided slice, to the right. That was the first time I hit towering shots into adjacent fairways. The only real trouble we had was spotting the balls after they were hit. Keeping score was a near impossibility, and Greg and I didn’t bother after a while. John and Greg were clearly the better golfers, but I managed to keep up fairly well. Despite some impressive strokes, by the 9^th hole we were done. Wind chill had sapped our early energy and excitement and we were ready to call it a day. Two shots of whiskey and a beer chaser was the perfect elixir to reviving our flagging spirits and we spent the next half hour regaling the clubhouse clerk with our exploits.

So there you have it. I’ve admitted to being a closet hacker and confessed my less-than-committed attitude toward the game. I still play with second-hand clubs and bag, and have no intention of taking lessons or joining a club. I’ve gotten somewhat better than when I first started hitting the ball five years ago, but I don’t care about accelerating my progress. I enjoy the opportunity it gives me to be with my friends, who thankfully are wise enough to realize that it doesn’t matter how well we play, or what others may think when they see us. What matters is that golf gives us the chance to come together, engage in a healthy, physical activity, and reconnect with our friendship. I’ve also learned that serious golfers like to draw parallels between the game of golf and life. Bobby Jones’ apocryphal quote is a good example. Hollywood has dramatized this philosophy in movies such as The Legend of Bagger Vance, Tin Cup, Caddy Shack, and The Greatest Game Ever Played. I can appreciate the metaphor only as to what it implies about struggle and joy. In fact, thinking about that metaphor drew me back to our morning in Manzanar, when we noticed all the extra touches the internees had added to make their camp life bearable, and in some cases joyful. Driving through the camp, we found the skeletal remains of churches, gardens, and playing fields. In the museum we saw how Japanese-Americans had built, tended, painted, photographed, and transcended their day-to-day existence in the camps. Despite its stark and harsh conditions, Manzanar was not a death camp. Its inhabitants lived, loved, created, and survived. Many of the internees were Buddhist, whose First Noble Truth states that life is suffering. Buddha taught that the goal of enlightenment is to transcend our addictions to human attachments and possessions, and simply enjoy each moment for what it is – an opportunity to live, love, and create. Partnership, companionship, comradeship, and friendship – these are my prescriptions for surviving the struggles and sufferings of life. Golf is just a game.

For more photos of our trip to Lone Pine and Manzanar click on the link to my Flickr album below:

2013-01-14 Lone Pine & Manzanar

Sunrise doesn’t last all morning.
A cloudburst doesn’t last all day.
Seems my love is up, and has left you with no warning.
It’s not always going to be this grey.

All things must pass.
All things must pass away.

Now the darkness only stays the nighttime.
In the morning it will fade away.
Daylight is good at arriving at the right time.
It’s not always going to be this grey.

All things must pass.
All things must pass away.
(All Things Must Pass: George Harrison – 1969)

I thought I had become immune to the fearful talk and doomsday forecasts from journalists, authors, and publishers about the future of print. I was aware of the paradigm shift going on throughout the media, and how newspapers, magazines, and book publishers were struggling to find new advertising and market strategies, while competing with digital online providers like Amazon and iTunes. But I’d become satisfied just watching this contest from the sidelines, waiting for the confusion to end, the dust to settle, and a winner (or winners) being declared. The struggle reminded me a little of the brief videotape wars of the 1980’s, when VHS and Betamax battled for video supremacy, only to both become obsolete with the appearance of optical disc storage (DVD) players. Then, of course, there was the drawn out music wars that began in the 1960’s with single and long play vinyl records battling audiotapes of various types for control of the business. Eventually both formats were vanquished by the development of compact disc (CD) players in the 1980’s, which replaced them with digitized music that could be heard on many different devices – like computers, MP3 players, iPods, iPads, and Smart Phones. Yet all of these enterprises seemed lightweight and trivial when compared to the print media, because they primarily provided visual and audio entertainment, and not vital educational, intellectual, historical, and cultural content and information. I suppose I always believed that despite these constant digital incursions, nothing could ever replace the printed page. We would always need books, magazines, textbooks, and newspapers. Well this last Christmas season, I was once again slapped awake to the transitory nature of all things.

I was getting in some last minute shopping for Kathleen on Christmas Eve when I dropped by Barnes & Noble in Woodland Hills. As I walked in the wood framed, glass entrance of the bookstore, I thought I could rest there for a while with a cup of coffee to review my shopping list before searching for a gift. However, instead of the cozy embraces of the bookstore café, decorated in gentle forest colors, and surrounded with wall posters of famous authors and neat racks of glossy magazine covers, I was greeted with devastation. I had entered what appeared to be the pillaged remains of a ransacked warehouse. It was a husk of a store with half-filled shelves, strewn with books in no particular order, or piled up in the corners. Sagging, gaudy signs draped across the walls and shelves announced 50% discounts and declarations that “All Must Go!” It took me a few minutes to realize that our only local bookstore, the last surviving, big chain bookstore in Woodland Hills and Canoga Park was closing, and it would be gone by Christmas.

For a long time I hadn’t much cared for nationwide, chain bookstores like Crown, B. Dalton, Brentano’s, Borders, and Barnes & Noble. Those national conglomerates had driven practically all of the independent bookstores that once decorated the literary landscape of Los Angeles and Southern California out of business with their cutthroat shipping and pricing tactics. But book buyers are fickle and memories are short, and anger at their harsh business practices quickly faded with the ease of shopping they provided – especially as many chains adopted the people-friendly strategies of legendary bookstores like The Earthling in Santa Barbara, or Book Soup in West Hollywood. Soon Borders and Barnes & Noble Bookstores were offering cafés with coffee house environments where readers and writers could drink, chat, read, and work. Some stores even offered the extensive selections of published material that once could only be found in college bookstores, and the convenience of having music and film material in the same building made them popular with the non-readers as well. Up until two years ago, two nationwide bookstores, Borders and Barnes & Noble Booksellers serviced Woodland Hills and Canoga Park, in the West San Fernando Valley. Now there are none. So, sulking in a somewhat depressed and nostalgic mood at the end of the year, I concocted a plan as Kathleen and I talked about going someplace on New Year’s Eve. We were looking for a friendly and scenic locale where we could window-shop, meet and mingle with lots of people, and enjoy a late lunch before bidding the old year goodbye. When we decided to go to Santa Monica and walk around the 3^rd Street Promenade, I wondered if the huge, three-story Barnes & Noble on Wilshire Blvd. was still in business. If it was, I decided to make a pilgrimage to one of the last surviving chain bookstores in Southern California.

Barnes and Noble remains the largest bookseller in the United States. The company still has 18 viable stores in the Southern California area – from Santa Ana, in Orange County, to Calabasas, near the border of Ventura County. Rather than sitting idly by, waiting for obsolescence, Barnes & Noble has boldly charged into the digital publishing arena and the e-reader battles against Amazon and Apple. According to David Carnoy of CNET, Barnes & Noble currently controls 25% of the e-book market, and looking to expand it. I own a Nook e-reader myself, and I’m planning on buying an Apple iPad Mini in the near future. I love the convenience of the e-reader and its immediate access to literature. Instead of having to travel to a brick and mortar store to buy a book, I can download one on any impulse or whimsy (as long as I have a Wi-Fi connection). I can read a review or an article about an interesting book or author, and immediately download the book on a trial basis. I can explore earlier works by an author I discover, or trace other writers of the same genre. My e-reader actually stimulates more reading and purchasing than when I went to bookstores. And yet I love bookstores. I loved browsing the shelves, scanning the titles and authors, handling a book, and paging through its leaves. Every time I find myself in a bookstore, I reconnect with memories of other times, in other places, and in other parts of the city when I was young with lots of time on my hands and very little money. I remember my dad taking me to explore the used bookstores around McArthur Park in Los Angeles, and the area around Sawtelle and Santa Monica Blvd in West L.A. He would give me a couple of bucks to spend and leave me to the wonderfully tireless task of choosing, eliminating, and buying my own novels. I remember when my Uncle Charlie first took me to Pickwick Bookshop on Hollywood Blvd to buy Christmas gifts when I was in high school. I recall spending hours roaming through the seemingly endless bookshelves of Martindale’s Books in Santa Monica when I was in college, and visiting Dutton’s in North Hollywood with Kathleen when we were dating. With those memories in mind, I entered the only remaining bookstore on the 3^rd Street Promenade on December 31, 2012.

As I walked around the store I was immediately attracted to enticing displays of fabulous books and memories of times spent reading them. Two tables held the works of J.R.R. Tolkien and George Martin, highlighting the books that were the current inspiration for movie and television screenplays (The Hobbit, and The Game of Thrones). A turntable rack hung with bookmarks of all styles and genres caught my amused attention with their depictions of superheroes, cartoon figures, and fairy tales. How much longer would bookmarks be practical? I asked myself, thinking how necessary they seemed when I was a child. The store abounded with classical literature. There were paperback works by Jane Austen, Charles Dickens, and Charlotte Bronte on sale, at 50% off their listed prices. Even leather bound versions of To Kill a Mockingbird, The Sun Also Rises, and Huckleberry Finn were marked down. The store also offered a music and video department on the 2^nd Floor that was tastefully decorated with poster-sized prints of iconic musicians and artists. The last section I inspected were the shelves dedicated to Literature Studies and Poetry. This was the place where one could spend hours pulling books and reading portions of essays and poems. After a while I couldn’t take any more. I wasn’t going to buy anything. I was still trying to get rid of the countless books I’d collected over the years, trying to free up more space on my bookshelves and cabinets. I didn’t need one more volume added to the multitude I hadn’t gotten around to reading yet. At this point in my life new books would have to fit in the digital library of my e-book, and not on a shelf. Luckily it was about that time that my daughter Teresa arrived with her husband and daughter Sarah to join us for lunch. Sarah’s boundless energy for watching and mimicking street performers, and touching everything she saw in stores, quickly dispelled all thoughts of bookstores and print. Shepherding her around the promenade and mall kept us all busy for the rest of the day.

At the end of our visit to Santa Monica, in the fading light of day, we walked by one store that caught everyone’s notice. A huge, white apple glowed from a three-story, glass façade, and it seemed to beckon all to enter. Beyond that crystal entrance laid a vast enclosure of electronic and digital wonders, enticing people to walk in and peruse the treasures. Within that gleaming cavern lay the future. Paper publishing and print media will go the way of cuneiform, hieroglyphics, and papyrus. Those methods of communication, learning, and entertainment will soon wither, become archaic, and die. We are at such a turning point in our culture right now, and we are watching the slow death of the old giving way to the new. It is sad but inevitable, because all thing pass.

While writing this elegy about bookstores I started a list of neighborhood shops that have closed or disappeared. I’d invite you to share your own favorite old bookstore, new or used, and where it was located. I remembered the following:

Martindale’s on 3^rd Street, Santa Monica
Pickwick Bookshop on Hollywood Blvd, Hollywood
Campbell’s Bookstore on Westwood Blvd, Westwood.
Dutton’s on Laurel Canyon Blvd, North Hollywood, and one in Brentwood
Either/Or Bookstore on Pier Ave, Hermosa Beach
Midnight Express on 3rd Street, Santa Monica
Papa Bach on Santa Monica Blvd, West Los Angeles.
Acres of Books in Long Beach
The Earthling Bookstore on State Street in Santa Barbara

I don’t need fortune and I don’t need fame.
Send down the thunder Lord, send down the rain.
But when you’re planning just how it will be,
Plan a good day for me.

You’ve been the King since the dawn of time.
All that I’m askin’ is a little less crying.
It might be hard for the devil to do,
But it would be easy for you.
(Lord, I Hope This Day is Good – Don Williams: 1981)

Don’t you just hate New Year’s Eve sometimes? It’s our annual reminder that everything ends: sunrise, sunset; birth, death; old year, new year. Some years are too good to let go of, and some years can’t end soon enough. I was really dreading the end of 2012 last month because it seemed that the year was ending poorly. I had stopped my daily practice of journaling. I wasn’t writing, exercising, or using time constructively. I was getting lazy and falling into bad habits. And the looming specter of New Year’s Day, with its perennial emphasis on New Year Resolutions kept moving closer and closer. There seems a universal expectation that people can simply start over in a new year – that they can will themselves to be better: to diet, lose weight, join a gym, pray or practice meditation, take up new hobbies, and put a stop to encroaching vices and addictions. It all seemed too much for me on one particular Sunday morning in Advent, during an especially boring sermon. As I started composing a mental list of New Year’s resolutions, my thoughts meandered to jail and the people I worked with there.

I‘ve been visiting and directing program sessions in jail now for almost three years. One of the volunteer chaplains I’ve gotten to know very well is Martín, a recovering alcoholic and an AA member. I hadn’t realized how much his example and daily practice of staying sober and drug free had influenced me during the years we worked together. When Martín was having a particularly bad day, he talked about it with me; and sometimes he shared his feelings with the men we visited in jail. Surrounded by petty thieves, drug dealers, and felons, he described how his day had gone at work, or what troubles he was facing at home with illness, death, and debt. But he always ended his stories by asking for the men’s prayers, and reciting a positive litany of thanksgiving for being alive, in the company of good men wanting to change, and being given the opportunity to shake off feelings of hopelessness, self-pity, and despair, and starting over. “We all mess up,” he would explain, “but I know that God loves us and forgives us. We just need to forgive ourselves and begin again. Staying sober is not about big conversions or big changes; it’s about doing the healthy things, one by one, little by little, day-by-day. Taking one day at a time, helps us remember that this is the day God made for us to be alive, to be happy, to love one another, and to enjoy the little miracles that make life so wonderful.”

On that 2nd Sunday of Advent, as my mind wondered away from the droning homily that bore no relationship to the Gospel readings of John the Baptist preparing the way of the Lord, it struck me that waiting for New Year’s Day to start new behaviors was futile. Dusting off a recycled list of old resolutions and magically hoping that they would finally take in 2013 was doomed to failure. A person can’t will himself to change overnight. Bad habits and unhealthy behaviors acquired over time don’t just disappear with the dawning of a new year, because of our good intentions. I recalled Martín’s words again, about staying sober. He said that addictions couldn’t be willed away – they had to be replaced with new actions and healthier behaviors, small ones at first, practicing them one day at a time. His goal was never to stay sober for a year – it was to be sober for that one day. By doing small things that are healthy, positive, and enjoyable – like going to work, helping people learn, praying for God’s help and guidance, volunteering at the jail, or having dinner with your family – we become strong enough to make these behaviors permanent. It finally occurred to me that I couldn’t wait until January 1 to begin acting on my New Year resolutions. I had to begin that day by resuming some of the actions and behaviors I had forsaken. The first thing I did was start journaling the following morning. Just the action of writing without judging the merits of what was written, spurred more creative feelings. I soon felt the need to do something more – and with a reenergized boost of determination, I decided to finish converting the penultimate bin of my brother-in-laws records.

This was the project I took on in 2010 (see The Vinyl Music Project). In August of that year I convinced my brother-in-law, Greg, to lend me his extensive collection of vinyl records from the late 60’s, 70’s, and early 80’s, so I could convert them into digital form. In March of 2011 I returned two of the 5 cases and downloaded the first batch of digitized music into his computer. By the end of 2011 Kathy and I had made another visit to Santa Barbara to return Bin # 3 and downloaded another batch of music (see Old Dan’s Records). Then came 2012. The vinyl project fell victim to the general lethargy and malaise that hit me that year. All my projects, good intentions, and New Year resolutions dropped off, one by one, during the year: my Weight Watcher diet, my attendance at the gym, my practice of journaling each morning, and my intentions to drink less, go to bed sooner, and rise earlier. The last two beneficial activities to go were writing essays for my blog and converting vinyl records. Thankfully I continued going to jail on Wednesdays, and babysitting my granddaughter Sarah on Thursdays and Fridays. I think those two remaining practices kept my head above water, and helped me retain the hope that eventually I’d wake up and get back on track.

It was while finishing the last 10 albums in the 4^th record bin, after four months without posting anything on my blog, that I suddenly, and effortlessly, wrote a short essay on the death of Harry Carey Jr. (see Way Out There On The Triple-R) I posted it on December 29, the same day I finished converting the final record. It was an LP called Banded Together II, and it was composed of 10 songs by various country western singers. The next day I loaded the car and Kathy and I traveled to Santa Barbara. The morning was clear, crisp, and beautiful on that last Sunday of December. Upon arrival, we discovered that Steve and Suzie Reischl, two old and dear family friends, were also visiting Greg and Anne. Together we talked about events of the year, both happy and sad, and documented the reunion with photographs. It was only later, after Steve and Suzie’s departure, and a light lunch in town, that we got down to the business of unloading the car and transferring the music.

As his middle son Clark lifted the heavy bin and carried it into the garage, Greg thanked me again for devoting so much time to the herculean task of converting so many vinyl disks. I shrugged off his compliment by explaining that I considered it a labor of love. I enjoyed all the music, especially getting to know artists I’d missed in the 70’s and 80’s, like Lou Reed’s Transformer album. I especially enjoyed learning to appreciate new genres. Two of my favorite albums were by Don Williams, a country western singer with a smooth, dulcet sound, and laid back delivery style. His relatable songs and easy-to-understand lyrics like Fair-weather Friends, It Only Rains On Me, and Lord, I Hope This Day is Good, just sucked me into his world of heartbreak, sorrow, and redemption. Actually, converting that particular last bunch of records for Greg was a Godsend for someone struggling to resume fallen away resolutions. Never being a country western aficionado, I had put off listening to those records until the very end. In a short span of two weeks I got a full dose of some serious country western singers, most of whom I had never heard before: Rosanne Cash, Don Williams, J.J. Cale, Michael Murphey, B.W. Stevenson, Mel McDaniels, Doc and Merle Watson, Marty Robbins, Crystal Gale, and Tut Taylor. Until that concentrated musical experience I had never realized how closely related country-western music was to the blues. They were both musical genres that dealt with human imperfections and struggles. There is something redeeming and reassuring when people sing about their mess-ups, mistakes, and heartbreaks. This is the human condition. The songs I heard during those weeks also called up Martín’s ideas about sobriety. To move forward we have to practice compassion, forgive ourselves for being weak, and concentrate on being better one day at a time. Just as the blues helped me through a particularly depressing period in 1997-98, I was hopeful that this last infusion of country western music would also signal the resumption of healthier practices. But at that moment, all I wanted to do was to be thankful for the day, and the opportunity to spend time and music with family and friends. It was a great way to end the old year.

Way out there on the Triple-R.
Yippee yay, yippee yo.
The horses are the best by far.
Yippee yay, yippee yo.
So saddle up boys and saddle up well,
And listen to the story that I have to tell
Yippee yay, yippee yo.

Tenderfeet come to the Triple-R.
Yippee yay, yippee yo.
They get on a horse but they don’t get far.
Yippee yay, yippee yo.
O around and around and around they trot
‘Till they can’t set down on their tender spot
Yippee yay, yippee yee, yippee hi, yippee ho.
(Theme song to The Adventures of Spin and Marty: 1956)

I suppose the reason some actors have such a significant impact on our lives is because their roles and portrayals tie us to specific times, events, and memories. When some actors die, their passing becomes a personal loss. That was the case today when I learned that Harry Carey Jr. had died at the age of 91.

Harry Carey Jr. was a venerable character actor, most famous for his work in John Ford films with John Wayne. But I knew him first as Bill Burnett, the summer ranch counselor on the Mickey Mouse Club television series called The Adventures of Spin and Marty, in 1956. In an age just dawning to the idea of television programming directed specifically to children and juvenile audiences, Walt Disney productions were huge. The Disneyland theme park, Disney movies, cartoons, and television series dominated the field of children’s entertainment; and with the advent of Spin and Marty, they were expanding into the blossoming teenage market. Although David Stallery (Marty), Tim Considine (Spin), and Annette Funicello (Annette) were the teen stars we identified with in the series, certain adult characters stood out. Mr. Burnett was one such figure. However I never saw his connection to the adult world of cinema until I saw the adult western, The Searchers, with John Wayne. When I knowingly pointed out to my father that the role of Brad, one of the searchers, was played by Spin and Marty’s Mr. Burnett, he gave me a bemused smile. Leaving the theatre he lectured me on that actor – pointing out that he was in fact the son of a famous silent-film, Western star, Harry Carey. Further, he explained, Harry Carey Jr. had already co-starred in the 1948 John Ford western classic, Tres Compadres (3 Godfathers), with John Wayne and Pedro Armendáriz. Of course these clarifying pieces of information were wasted on me at the time. Television and movies were still personal mediums of entertainment for me, and I would have to experience and prize quality films and acting on my own.

It wasn’t until many years later in college that I really learned to appreciate John Ford and Howard Hawks westerns as something more than star-vehicles for The Duke, John Wayne. I also came to recognize and appreciate Harry Carey Jr. as a valued member of John Ford’s Stock Company of actors who populated his movies through the years. This special band of thespians numbered Ward Bond, Victor McLaglen, Ben Johnson, Mildred Natwick, Ken Curtis, Vera Miles, Jack Pennick, Jane Darwell, and many, many more. These men and women worked hard at their craft, movie after movie, and they brought life and substance to the characters they played. Harry Carey Jr. was such an actor.

Henry G. Carey was born May 16, 1921 in Saugus, CA., and died on December 27, 2012, in Santa Barbara, CA. The career of this native son of California spanned 51 years in movies and television, but I will forever remember him as the understanding and patient, summer ranch counselor in The Adventures of Spin and Marty. There, on the Triple-R Ranch, he taught Marty how to ride a horse, how to be responsible, and how to be part of team. Rest in Peace, Mr. Burnett. Yippee yay, yippee yee, yippee hi, yippee ho.

There’s a lady who’s sure
All that glitters is gold
And she’s buying a stairway to heaven.
And when she gets there she knows
If the stores are all closed
With a word she can get what she came for.
Ooh, ooh, and she’s buying a stairway to heaven.

There’s a sign on the wall
But she wants to be sure
‘Cause you know sometimes words have two meanings.
In a tree by the brook
There’s a songbird who sings
Sometimes all of our thoughts are misgivings.
Ooh, it makes me wonder,
Ooh, it makes me wonder.
(Stairway to Heaven: Led Zeppelin, 1971)

Whew, childcare is hard work! After a 4-day stretch of taking care of Sarah, with one overnight sleepover, I’m exhausted and understand why parents miss so many of their infants developing moments. Mom and Dad are so fatigued by the end of the day that they start looking forward to the time when their toddlers are older, more self-sustaining, and less demanding of their attention. Of course, now I realize that babies only too readily accommodate this wish by growing up so fast that parents soon forget the stages they left behind. Therein lies the rub of parenthood: looking forward causes us to miss the details and memories of the first two years of infant development.

Sarah in her crib

Sarah with computer

Sarah stacking paper rolls

I think my favorite moment of the weekend was when Sarah and I went for a morning walk around our cul-de-sac. Actually “walking” is too generous a word. Uneven sidewalks, cracked cement, and separations between lawns and concrete still easily trip her up. I have to stay ever vigilant for those breaks in her path, and anticipate her short bursts of speed when she playfully decides to dash away from me, increasing the likelihood of tripping. Despite these sporadic sprints it took us well over 30 minutes to reach the halfway point of the curved street. Sarah, at 15 months of age felt it necessary to inspect every tree, lawn, and bush of our neighbor’s homes, and study the upright mailboxes and sidewalk utility covers on the ground. At the halfway point, she noticed for the very first time the cement stairway and metal banister leading up to the raised street above. She headed right for it. She grasped the barreled pipe made of cold steel with both hands, raised her left foot to the first step, and with a determined grunt using both arms and legs raised herself up one level. Step by step she went, noisily emphasizing the strenuousness of her efforts until she gained the top landing and walked to the barred exit gate that separated the stairway from the sidewalk and street beyond. She grasped the bars and looking beyond, pressed her face between the slots for a long time. Sarah looked up and down the long sidewalk, staring at the cars as they sped by and then at the trees and the sky above. A flight of birds soaring above caught her attention and she quickly step back from the gate and raised her arms toward me, indicating her desire to be lifted up and carried. Nestled in the secure sling of my arms, she continued watching the birds in flight.
“Dat”, she exclaimed, raising her tiny hand into the air.
“Those are birds”, I said, lifting my hand to imitate the gliding actions of the feathered creatures. “Swoosh”, I said, adding my own sound effects for the winged flight. Sarah too raised her hand and imitated my gliding motion.

Setting out on a walk

Exploring the neighbors porch.

Watching Birds in Flight

When I grew weary of her weight, I put Sarah down and directed her attention back to the stairs, hoping she would take the clue and resume the remainder of our walk. Climbing down was a lot tougher than going up. Sustaining your balance on one leg while fighting the pull of gravity is the trick to descending stairs, and Sarah was still learning to walk and run without tripping and falling. This staircase was the steepest set of steps she had ever climbed with me. Fearlessly, she grasped the metal banister rod with her left hand and extended her left foot into the empty air above the step below. Her next action would have been to let it fall downward while balancing her body above it. At that daring moment I grasped her right hand to give her a counterbalance, and step-by-step we descended. I will admit that I did more on the downward trip than just providing a handhold for Sarah. A couple of times I suspended her in the air until she untangled her feet, found the ledge she was looking for, or regained her balance.

Zipper Fascination

Shoelace Fascination

Descending Stairs

“Gen”, she announced, her feet touching the ground level, and she turned back and immediately repeated her ascending actions. Up, up, up, followed by down, down, down. With each ascent and descent, she got better and better, even as weariness set in. She might miss a step, or have difficulty reaching it, but she never faltered. She’d occasionally revert to crawling upward when overcoming a steep step or two, but quickly resumed an erect posture as soon as momentum was regained. We must have spent an additional 30 or 40 minutes going up and down that stairway, and we stopped only because I was growing tired. I finally interrupted her climbing compulsion by carrying her away from the stairway to a low terraced wall up the street where we could sit down.
“Whew”, I huffed, as we sat, side-by-side. “That’s a lot of work, Nena. Let’s take a break”.
She looked up at me and blew air out of her lips in imitation. But after only a momentary pause she said, “dat”, while pointing back at the stairs. I lowered her from our perch on the wall and watched as she scampered back to the foot of the stairs.
“I guess we’re not finished yet, huh Nena?” I groaned, standing up to follow.

Inspecting a Stick

Pushing a Scooter

Batter Up!

I didn’t take photos of that first encounter with the cement stairway. It seemed like such a marvelously ordinary moment that I just enjoyed being a part of it (plus I couldn’t take my eyes or attention off of Sarah for a moment while she was climbing and descending). I realized that I had witnessed another wonder of growing up. This was learning – this was achieving physiological mastery of one’s body. Just as Sarah had progressed from lifting her head, flipping over from her back to crawling, from sitting to standing, and from inching to walking – so she was now climbing. What was so wonderful to see was her pure enjoyment at mastering this skill. She climbed because she could, and she got better the more she did it. I was the one who grew tired and bored. It was I who concluded that she had practiced enough and I carried her back home from the stairway. But I also knew that her brain, muscles, and nerves would remember all of these lessons and that she’d be even better the next time.

Inspecting the nozzle

Ball Player

Washing Hands & Brushing Teeth

I wrote those words in my journal on Monday, February 20, 2012, when Sarah Kathleen was only 15 months old. Since then, I’d intended to write an essay or two about Sarah’s quickly developing skills, but never got around to it. As her coordination improved and I was able to put more attention to other things besides making sure that she didn’t trip or fall, I found myself taking more photos, but little writing. Her maturity was so rapid, and she was moving on to her next challenges so quickly, that I found it easier to video and photograph her progress instead of describing it. I came across that February entry this morning, and after re-reading it, I realized that Sarah was fast approaching her second birthday, without my having written an essay about her since January 9^th (see House On Taylor Court), the eve of her move to a new home in Gardena. I thought she deserved a written update on her progress, especially since she had enjoyed watching the Olympics on television so much.

Sarah at 15 months

For a video of Sarah’s stair climbing skills, activate the link below to see her on February 11, 2012:

2012-03-11 Walking Up Stairs

They ask me how I feel
And if my love is real
And how I know I’ll make it through
And they, they look at me and frown
They’d like to drive me from this town
They don’t want me around
‘Cause I believe in you

They show me to the door
They say don’t come back no more
‘Cause I don’t be like they’d like me to
And I walk out on my own
A thousand miles from home
But I don’t feel alone
‘Cause I believe in you

Don’t let me change my heart
Keep me set apart
From all the plans they do pursue
And I, I don’t mind the pain
Don’t mind the driving rain
I know I will sustain
‘Cause I believe in you
(I Believe in You: Bob Dylan - 1979)

Vatican Crackdown: U.S. Nuns Chastised For Questioning Church, stormed the interior headline of the L.A. Times on April 19^th. I had just picked up the parts of the newspaper that Kathy had set aside, and I was paging through the main section.
“What did the nuns do to piss off the Vatican now?” I muttered aloud, as I quickly scanned the first two paragraphs of Michael Muskail’s story. When I came to the unfamiliar title and acronym of the offending religious organization, I went to my own “Google” source for information about nuns and religious orders – my wife.
“Kath, what’s the LCWR?” I asked, putting the paper down so I could look across the couch where she was sitting, working on the New York Times crossword puzzle.
“Hmmm, so, you finally got to that story?” she asked as if expecting my question. “The LCWR stands for the Leadership Conference of Women Religious. It’s the largest association of sisters in the United States, and it’s made up of most of the leaders of the Catholic women religious groups. They’re controversial because they’ve taken progressive positions on social justice and supported female ordination. They were the group that sponsored the exhibit we saw at the Mount last year. Do you remember? It was called Women & Spirit: Catholic Sisters in America.
“Really!” I exclaimed, remembering the afternoon we spent at Mount Saint Mary’s College, in Brentwood, walking through the galleries of photographs, posters, and artifacts highlighting the contributions of American nuns in education, medicine, social service, and the fine arts. “That was a great exhibit.”
With that brief explanation I returned to the nun story I was reading to find out what the good sisters had done to rattle the ancient rafters of the Catholic Church in Rome. But as I read, I couldn’t help thinking of the many experiences I’ve had with nuns over the years, and what might have contributed to this repressive reaction on the part of the all-male hierarchy of the Church.

LCWR

Women & Spirit Exhibit

I suppose my first real concept of sisters came from the nuns I had in elementary school. Before enrolling in the second grade at St. Teresa of Avila School in the Silver Lake section of Los Angeles, nuns were simply a collective body of oddly dressed women in white and black who seemed to move, kneel, and stand in unison. I would observe them from a distance as they entered the church, prayed, and left for school each morning, wondering how on earth they managed to fit themselves into those thick, flowing black robes and starchy white flaps, and what their hair looked like under their hoods. Sister Gaudentia was my first nun teacher, and she made the biggest impression on me. She was different from the female public school teachers I had in Kindergarten and the 1^st grade. She looked older, shorter, and more scowling than the fresh faced, smiling, and helpful young ladies in public schools who dressed in brightly colored shirt sleeve blouses, and long, billowing skirts. Sister G ran a tight and solemn ship. She did not brook whispering, laughing, or talking out of turn. She became angry when we failed to listen to, or follow instructions. She became particularly short tempered and critical when she drilled us on our catechism responses. Second grade was the First Communion year in Catholic elementary schools, and she would glare at us, becoming redder faced and angry if we failed to recite word-for-word answers to the Baltimore Catechism questions the parish priest would ask us on Friday mornings. Knuckle raps on the head and ruler slaps on the hands were her favorite responses to wrong answers, inattention, and whispering. Although my mother and father seemed happy with the school and its teachers, I never got the feeling that Sister Gaudentia liked teaching or children. When I expressed this idea to my mom, she dismissed it, telling me that women in religious orders took vows of obedience, and many times they were directed to perform jobs that they would never have picked for themselves. When these disagreements occurred, good nuns would sublimate their unhappiness, obey their orders, and offer their suffering to the Lord. This explanation never satisfied me as a good excuse for Sister G’s actions or demeanor. Before my twin brother and sister matriculated into the second grade the following year, I warned them that Sister Gaudentia was just mean, and that the children in her classes were the ones suffering for her obedience.

elem teacher 2

Nun with Ruler

Sister Gaudentia represented a strict and humorless manner of teaching I would encounter again in varying degrees during my next six years in Catholic elementary schools, first at St. Teresa of Avila, and later at St. Mark’s School in Venice. Luckily children have an amazing ability to adapt and make the best of difficult situations, and my negative encounters with nuns were interspersed with many friendlier and more inspiring teachers. Sister Philomena was a joyful breath of fresh air in the 4^th grade. My classmates and I called her a “young nun” not only because she had only recently taken her full vows but because she looked and acted like she enjoyed school. She smiled, told jokes, laughed, and talked about her life before entering the convent. Even though Sister Philomena would sometimes become impatient and angered by our childish antics and misbehaviors, she never lashed out verbally or physically struck us. We could let our guard down and act naturally with Sister Philomena, whereby with the older, stricter nuns, we had to be constantly alert, respectful, and obedient to their requests and directions. However, just as I was entering adolescence and becoming familiar with the quirks and idiosyncrasies of the teaching nuns at St. Teresa, we moved.

teaching nun

In the summer of 1959, when I was 11 years old, my parents bought their first home, and we moved from a three-story apartment house in the Silver Lake section of Los Angeles to the westernmost reaches of the city. Venice was conveniently close to my father’s photography studio in Culver City, but in the last days of the 1950’s it was a funky, low-rent beach town – a poor stepchild to the swankier seaside cities of Ocean Park and Santa Monica to the north. Its storied canals were stagnant and polluted, no pier or marina had yet been built, and only homeless vagrants, bearded beatniks, and ancient Jewish retirees populated the oceanfront walkways of Venice Beach. In September I entered the sixth grade of St. Mark’s School with a new order of nuns, the Sister of the Holy Name of Jesus and Mary (SNJM). Their clothing was slightly different from the previous religious order that taught us. Holy Name sisters wore a wide, more pronounced white headpiece that covered their foreheads, with a pinned black veil that draped down their shoulders and back to their waist. A huge starched bib covered their ears and necks, extending down to the chest, making them look like solemn emperor penguins. I’m not sure if it was the new religious order, the new environment, or my age, but my interactions and attitude toward nuns changed in junior high school. Sister Trinita, my 7^th grade teacher, was the first nun I ever had a crush on. Even in her penguin-like outfit, she looked pretty, shiny, and bright. She was the first instructor who really challenged and inspired me to write and to explore other talents I never knew existed. She had confidence in my abilities, sending me to a daylong Student Leadership Conference, and allowed me to sit and chat with her after school, joking about softball season and wondering if I had a vocation for the priesthood. But this newfound confidence and excitement about learning collided and floundered with my last nun experience in the 8^th grade. Sister Estela Marie was the Mother Superior of the convent, and even though she was neither old nor dour in age or appearance, I seemed to really rub her ego and authority the wrong way. She glared at me like Sister Gaudentia whenever I laughed or joked in class. She took me out of the accelerated pre-Algebra and science classes that she taught herself, and moved me into remedial classes taught by another sister. When it was time for our graduating class to take our entrance exams for admittance into Catholic high schools, she bemoaned my math skills and counseled me to not expect placement in college preparatory classes. I fumed at these affronts that I suspected sprang from her disliked for me, and kept them hidden from my parents. I was determined to show her that she was wrong; that I could achieve intellectually and academically in high school. Mother Superior brought a close to my elementary school learning career with nuns, and for the next 3 years I was left with some bitter memories of their teaching legacy.

Holy Name Sisters 1950's

St Mark's Class of 1962

Attending St. Bernard High School, a co-institutional, Catholic high school in Playa del Rey, California, from 1962-1966, quickly dispelled me of the illusion of the superiority of male instructors. Co-institutional (as opposed to co-educational) meant that although male and female students attended the same school, we were assigned to different parts of the buildings and segregated into single-sex classrooms, where laywomen and nuns taught the girls, and laymen and priests taught the boys. Even our lunch times were divided, the girls eating 30 minutes before we did. The only times boys and girls had an opportunity to associate with each other were before and after school, and during a 20 minute recess break in the morning. It was in my classrooms, those all-male sacristies of learning, that I found many more manifestations of the pedagogical weaknesses I had experienced in elementary school with women, but less of the strengths. Admittedly nuns were sometimes very strict and controlling (Sister G comes to mind), with delusional beliefs in their diagnostic and counseling abilities (Sister E. M., for example), but they never lost control of a classroom of adolescents, allowing brutal hazing practices to occur, or the physical and emotional manhandling of cornered and frightened boys who found themselves in conflict with insecure men. When a male teacher lost control of a classroom full of boys because of embarrassment, anger, or incompetence, the scene was ugly and pathetic. Too many of our laymen teachers were coaches or disciplinary deans first, and trained educators second, or they were ill-prepared priests, unwillingly commanded to teach high school boys by their bishop or provincial. However, since I couldn’t verify the pedagogical differences in style and substance between the male and female teachers in high school because of our segregated system, I simply assumed that the girls had it as bad as we did. Thankfully, an exceptional male teacher would occasionally appear among the faculty who was neither a coach nor a dean, usually in the English and Humanities Departments. Mr. McCambridge, in my sophomore and junior year, and Mr. Sullivan, my senior English teacher, restored my faith in quality teaching and the power of art, literature, and the written word. It was also in my senior year that I established an unlikely friendship with a nun – a collaboration that foreshadowed a blessed and long-term relationship with the Congregation of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ).

Co-In Classes A - 1966

Co-In Classes B - 1966

Co-In Classes C - 1965

My association with Sister Joanna Marie came about at the end of a long series of calamitous events that I only learned about later. Mr. McCambridge had been scheduled to continue as the English teacher and faculty moderator of the school newspaper, The Viking, during my senior year, but he was unexpectedly lured away by Loyola High School. Sister Joanna Marie, another English teacher who taught only girls, agreed to replace him as sponsor and supervise the paper. However a series of artistic and editorial disagreements arose between the senior editor, Mike McElroy, and the new moderator. McElroy was McCambridge’s protégé and his personal choice for editor-in-chief. They shared similar tastes in music (Chicago Blues and The Rolling Stones), literature (the Lost Generation authors and the new Beats), and a humorously irreverent attitude toward authoritarian establishments, like our school, the Church, and the U.S. Government. McElroy hadn’t been subjected to a nun’s authority for three years, and without his mentor’s restraining influence, he believed he had carte blanche to print whatever he wished. Without the new moderator’s knowledge or approval, McElroy proceeded to publish and distribute a crude and snarky fall edition of the paper that reminded everyone of Mad Magazine. The principal immediately removed him and the offending contributors from the paper, and Sister Joanna Marie began building a new staff from the remaining writers. One of the surviving editors was my friend Wayne Wilson, who asked me to the join the leaderless newspaper as a contributing editor. Wayne introduced me to Sister Joanna Marie the next day, and after a brief interview I was “hired”.

Viking Paper 1966

Working closely with a nun who was not our teacher was weird at first. None of the old behavioral paradigms of elementary school subservience and submissiveness worked here. We had to figure out a way of getting the newspaper back on its feet, while making it interesting, funny, and relevant to students. Wayne and I concluded that McElroy and his confederates had poisoned their relationship with Sister by accepting and acting on the prevalent male stereotypes toward nuns. Over the last 3 years certain negative opinions about nuns had been expressed by many of the priests and laymen in the school: nuns had secret feminine agendas that they reviewed in their cloistered convents; nuns were clever and sneaky, because they wormed their way into positions of authority and control by first, volunteering to do the hardest jobs, and then performing them so expertly and efficiently that they became essential to the operation; nuns were not dependable because they were subject to periodic emotional and hormonal imbalances and hysteria; nuns were fine as long as they stayed on the girl’s side of the school; and ultimately, high school male teachers and priests could never work for a women, especially a nun. The majority of the priests at St. Bernard at the time were Piarists, a foreign-born teaching order from Spain, who tended to be the most emphatic spokesmen of these beliefs. In fact, my friend Albert Nocella often took advantage of these macho prejudices by provoking certain priests into lengthy rants on these conspiracy theories. It was strange how my childish attitudes about “good nuns” and “mean nuns” had been repackaged into adult male views of “dangerous nuns”. However, Wayne and I brushed aside those opinions and concentrated on the job at hand – printing a newspaper.

CSJ's - 1965

Piarists - 1966

An exciting and collaborative system soon emerged. In the Viking Newspaper Office, across the hall from the chapel, Wayne and I, along with Kathy Less, the girls’ editor, would brainstorm ideas for stories, articles, and photo essays. Sometimes we’d drag along our friend Jim Riley to give the “average student’s” perspective. We’d then pitch our ideas to Sister Joanna Marie as an editorial staff in the office, or a couple of us would visit her after school. There she would praise some ideas, critique others, dismiss some, and add many of her own. We went back and forth in this manner, working out the details of an issue we could all live with and enjoy. As time went on, and we got to know and trust each other, managing the paper became easier, and more fun. There was always a lot of joking, kidding, and good humor during every encounter, and Sister was a new and interesting addition. Many times Wayne, Jim, and I would just drop in on her homeroom after school and talk about other things besides the newspaper. We learned that Sister was a native Californian, a graduate of Mount Saint Mary’s College, and a teacher who enjoyed teaching. Yet even though she could be witty and sarcastic about some topics, we could never provoke her by reporting the negative remarks and comments we heard about nuns from the male teachers and priests. Sister would simply arch her eyebrows, give us an enigmatic smile, and change the subject. She ultimately proved to be a confidant and forgiving friend who pardoned the three of us for one big mistake and bailed me out of the only serious trouble I got into that year.

Seniors 1966

Homecoming Float 1966

By the time Spring of 1966 rolled around, with senioritis running rampant through the halls, writing stories, managing the newspaper, and just hanging out in the Viking Office, was a lot more fun than schoolwork, especially attending Civics and Mechanical Drawing. Since all our teachers recognized Wayne and me as editors, we found it a simple matter to get ourselves released from class by claiming that Sister needed us to finish up some newspaper work. Then one of us would proceed to Jim’s class and ask for his release as well, claiming we were doing so at Sister’s request. We would probably have avoided exposure if we hadn’t begun writing impromptu humorous captions for the photos of teachers and students that were posted on our mockup boards in the office. On the day of a school-wide retreat, Father Richard, our Algebra II teacher and the target of one of these humorous jibes, used the Viking Office as a confessional location. That afternoon we noticed that some of the photographs, including Father Richard’s, were missing. The next day, when the three of us should have been in other classes, he surprised us as we sat around, joking in the office. After scolding us angrily for our disrespectful captions, he waved off our apologies and demanded a written note from Sister Joanna Marie supporting our claims that we there working on official business. Shamefaced and apologetic, the three of us confessed our actions to Sister that day after school and pleaded for her intervention. The consequence we faced for cutting class was parent notification and a daylong Saturday detention under the supervision of our Civics teacher, who was notorious for his derisive and mocking treatment of seniors. Sister was silent for a long time, looking into each of our faces and letting us stew in the cauldron of our shame. Finally she turned to Wayne and me, saying that she would write the exculpatory note because we had in fact been working on newspaper business, but we’d have to work hard at earning back her trust. To Jim she gently apologized for not being able to help him, since he was not a member of her staff or a writer for the paper. Knowing that Jim would be paying the price for our misdeeds soured our initial relief over escaping punishment and sobered us up for the rest of the year. We spent the remainder of the semester concentrating on schoolwork, staying in all our classes, and regaining Sister Joanna’s trust and confidence.

Sister Joanna Marie 1966

I never had a hint of the Vatican II Council reforms that would soon be roiling the Church while I was at St. Bernard. My high school years (1962-1966) saw a continuation of the traditional practices familiar to my mother and father in the 1940’s and 50’s, with priests and nuns in their age-old roles, functions, and uniforms. It wasn’t until I started attending Sunday Mass and weekday activities at UCLA’s University Catholic Center (the Newman Center), under the direction of priests from the Missionary Society of Saint Paul the Apostle (better known as Paulist Fathers), that I learned of the Vatican II documents and how they were reforming the language, form, and functions of the Church. The Paulist priests were a great vehicle for learning about and witnessing these changes. While my aging parish pastor complained of these reforms and delayed their implementation, the Paulist were celebrating their masses in English, explaining the significance of the “new liturgy”, and teaching the “good news” that Jesus proclaimed in the Gospels. I learned that Martin Luther and the reforms of Protestantism were not evil; that human choices based on reasoned discernment and personal conscience, instead of blind adherence to religious authorities and doctrine, was a key ingredient in maintaining a relationship with God; and that ecumenicalism, or the finding of commonalities in all religions, was more important than condemning their differences. It was also during this exciting time that I became aware of the radical messages contained in the Gospels, and the paradoxical teachings they laid out (the meek inheriting the earth, scattering the proud in their conceit, casting down the mighty from their thrones, lifting up the lowly, and filling the hungry with good things while sending the rich away empty). Vatican II also called for a reevaluation and renewal of religious life, which was most visible in the changes that were sweeping many communities of sisters. The male religious orders didn’t seem too visibly affected, but women communities were significantly altering, or discarding, their habits, and expanding their mission to include wider occupations and more secular vocations. Although I only met a handful of nuns at the Newman Center, I was still able to see the rapid evolution of their uniforms from long, flowing robes, starchy white collars, and elaborate headgear, into prim, mid-level skirts and short veils. However I really wasn’t aware of the visceral reactions these changes were provoking among many Catholics until I heard about the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart of Mary (IHM) and their conflict with the Archbishop of Los Angeles, James Cardinal McIntyre.

Vatican II

I first learned of the Sisters of the Immaculate Heart after admiring the challenging artwork of Sister Mary Corita, a member of that order who helped popularized silkscreen and serigraphy as a major art medium during the 1960’s and 70’s. She was chairman of the Art Department of Immaculate Heart College when that college, and the religious order that was centered there, became the flashpoint for a battle over obedience and Church authority. Cardinal McIntyre demanded that the IHM Sisters discontinue their renewal efforts and concentrate on teaching in Archdiocesan schools. In addition, he insisted that they retain a number of the traditional rules that he believed were essential to a female religious community. The sisters, in turn, objected to the Archbishop dictating their order’s mission, and stipulating their attire, bedtimes, and hours of prayer. When the Vatican agency overseeing religious communities refused to intervene on their behalf, 90% of the IHM sisters, following the example of their superior, Sister Anita Caspary, dispensed from their vows and left the community. It was a shocking development, and it raised questions among the Catholic college students at UCLA’s Newman Center: Who was truly following the spirit of the Vatican II reforms, the Cardinal or the nuns? And, is questioning Church authority ever permitted? We never satisfactorily answered these questions at the time, and soon other events pushed them out of my mind.

Sister Corita Kent

Love

In January of 1972 I began teaching History at St. Bernard High School, and resumed my connection with nuns. My arrival there was the result of another string of dramatic events that began with my being drafted soon after graduation from UCLA in 1970. Rather than accepting my induction for two years of Army service, which at that time meant a sure combat tour in Viet Nam, I decided to enlist for four years into the United States Air Force, hoping for some control over my job and duty assignments. After basic training at Lackland AFB, near San Antonio, Texas, I was assigned as an Information Specialist (Air Force newspaper reporter) to Norton AFB, San Bernardino, California. It was during my assignment there that my father suffered a final heart attack and died on November 1, 1971. A month later I was honorably discharged from the Air Force because of hardship, and started looking for a job while living at home. While reconnecting with old friends, I ran into Kathy Sigafoos, a high school and college classmate who had married after graduation and was teaching history at St. Bernard. She told me that she was leaving the position for maternity leave and wouldn’t be returning, so she encouraged me to apply for the position. Even though I had no training or experience as a teacher, that occupation appealed to me more than returning to my college job as a burglar alarm operator. So I immediately solicited letters of recommendation from the Paulist priests at the Newman Center, and the parish priest who had been a good friend of my father, and interviewed for the position. In the Principal’s Office I met Father Larry Dunphy and Sister Marilyn Therese, CSJ, the chairman of the History Department. I liked to believe that they both overlooked my inexperience and unanimously hired me because I wowed them with my youthful charm, confident enthusiasm, and compelling charisma. However, years later Marilyn told me that she had in fact wanted to hire a more experienced teacher, but reluctantly agreed to go along with the principal’s decision because of the strong vote of confidence I had received from Kathy Sigafoos, the outgoing teacher. This honest assessment and truthful revelation by Sister Marilyn pretty much typified my relationship with her and the other nuns of St. Bernard High School for the two and a half years I spent there, and for the rest of my life. I’m beginning to wonder now if the real reason I was so bothered by the news of the Vatican’s crackdown on the LCWR was influenced by my experiences as a beginning teacher at St. Bernard, and what I learned from the lives and actions of these nuns. All my previous interactions had been as a student to a teacher. I was always the child being catechized, disciplined, and instructed by nuns. Now, for the first time in my life I was dealing with them as a peer and co-worker, but in a brand new profession in which I needed a lot of help and guidance.

Larry Dunphy 1972

SBHS 1976

The first year of teaching is always difficult, but doing so without any prior training or practice is almost suicidal. Although most veteran teachers are usually responsive to appeals for assistance, many tend to shy away from unschooled rookies so as not to witness the train wrecks occurring in their classrooms. In those tenuous first months, Sister Marilyn graciously and generously stepped into the role of counselor and mentor. She paired me with another first-year teacher, Jerry Lenhard, who had received teacher training in college, and gently guided me through the brave new world of Inquiry-based Learning. This was the instructional methodology developed in the 1960’s that sought to remedy the weaknesses of more traditional forms of instruction, where students were required to memorize fact-laden textbooks. This was the way I had been taught history and other subjects in high school, and why I found so many of those classes boring and insipid. Inquiry Learning was a dynamic process that stressed student-generated questions, formulating original hypotheses, gathering and evaluating evidence, and testing the hypotheses to reach a conclusion. My first attempts at employing this new methodology met with mixed results because I was more interested in mastering classroom management techniques. But, by my second year I was gaining more and more confidence and expertise, and finally seeing the benefits of this style of teaching. It was in fact the method used in the more relevant classes at UCLA where the study of history was treated as a viable science aimed at addressing and solving social ills and political problems. Throughout the year, I grew more and more excited about the subject matter I was teaching and the skills the students were learning. I found myself spending much of my time with Marilyn and her good friend Sister Carol, Chairman of the Religion Department. Jerry and I regularly joined them in the faculty lounge for coffee and lunch, and talked about philosophy, education, and religion. It was during those times that I was also invited to join their regular TGIF parties at their apartment convent in Westchester. I had driven by this building hundreds of times, going to, and coming from, high school and work without ever suspecting that it was the cloistered quarters for five to six nuns (depending who was in residence) in the religious Community of St. Joseph of Carondolet (CSJ). By now I knew all of these CSJ’s as fellow faculty and staff members. They were the largest religious order in the school and represented every level of the school hierarchy. They had an assistant principal (Sister Nancy), two department chairs, Sisters Marilyn and Carol, and two teachers (Sisters Margaret and Mona). Given their numbers and influence in the administration and culture of the school, I saw why the more paranoid priests on the faculty still feared some kind of feminine conspiracy or administrative take-over. However, I also noticed that none of these male decriers ever sought or requested additional responsibilities beyond their immediate classroom or coaching duties. The nuns were always ready to respond constructively to school problems and challenges, and I found myself happily joining them.

Sr. Marilyn -1972

Sister Nancy 1973

Sr. Carol - 1972

It was during these lunchroom chats and TGIF gabfests that I learned of the CSJ’s commitment to social justice and Marilyn’s use of the teaching of history and religion as vehicles for Catholic social action. It seemed that she, and this order of nuns, looked beyond a life dedicated to prayer and teaching, and saw themselves as active participants and implementers of Christ’s teachings in the gospel. They modeled the spirit of Inquiry Learning that I taught – questioning, rather than passively accepting popular beliefs or authoritarian dogmas, gathering and analyzing data and evidence in their search for answers, and acting to solve problems and initiate change. Their community’s “Charism” (the divine influence on a person’s heart and it’s reflection in their life) was clearly demonstrated in the CSJ’s support of Cesar Chavez and United Farm Worker’s Union. While I had given lip service to the movement in college, and supported their grape boycott after graduation, it was Sisters’ Marilyn and Carol, and their religious compatriots who were showing up at the picket lines and physically assisting the farm worker’s in their efforts. These sisters also dared to point out the institutional inconsistencies in the decisions and actions of Church authorities.

Social Justice

Helping the Sick and Marginalized

In the early days of spring, an issue arose that would normally have been dealt with privately by the principal, Father Dunphy. However, Larry was the rare priest and leader who not only sought out the advice of nuns on his administrative staff and faculty but also was also unafraid to discuss crucial matters openly in a professional forum. The case involved a very popular and intelligent student who became pregnant during the summer before her junior year. She decided to keep the baby and raise it at home with her parents, and returned to school to finish the year. Her desire to finish high school was lauded by all and her decision to have the baby was cited as the proper Catholic choice, in a time when teenage abortions were so prevalent. The dilemma arose however when she applied as a candidate for the office of Student Body President. The issue became an immediate cause célèbre in the faculty lunchroom, where scandalized teachers and priests demanded her disqualification for violating the Student Code of Conduct. They believed that all candidates for student government office, especially the presidency, should be models of Catholic values and behavior, and an unwed, teenaged mother clearly failed to reach that standard. I like to believe that it was the gradual and subtle influence of the CSJ’s on Larry Dunphy, who was a regular TGIF guest at their apartment that convinced him to discuss this issue in a special faculty meeting before making his decision. The afterschool forum gave teachers and staff a chance to speak their minds and listen to the opinions of others, but it wasn’t until Sister Carol spoke that we were finally forced to view the issue as honest Catholics and faithful followers of Christ. She galvanized the room by quietly and solemnly relating the story that in past years many students who had secretly terminated unwanted pregnancies through legal abortions had run for, and been elected to student body offices, including president.
“What message are we sending as a Catholic school,” she asked, “when we penalize a student for publically doing the right thing, and choosing the life of her baby, while rewarding students who secretly have abortions?”
It was the uncomfortable question that no one wanted to hear. Without ever quoting scripture or making comparisons, Carol’s challenge forced everyone to recall the actions of Jesus when he was questioned about the woman charged with adultery, and he told her, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and sin no more”. Looking at Father Dunphy, sitting silently across the room, I wondered what he thought of Carol’s question, and what he would choose to do about the unwed teenager seeking to run for student body office.

Larry Dunphy 1973

Many years have passed since those early days of teaching with Marilyn, Carol, and the other CSJ sisters. I went on to graduate school and public school education, but in many ways that time with them colored my views on teaching, leadership, and the struggles of living a Christian life. Marilyn and Carol introduced me to my wife, Kathleen Mavourneen, who had been their student and friend at Mount Saint Mary’s College, and we all remained friends long after. I will always admire Father Larry Dunphy, who was on the altar when Kathy and I married, and who baptized our first child, for being available, open, and receptive to what his faculty believed and needed to express. But, I especially respect him for never fearing to hear the difficult questions, or seeing the challenging evidence that nuns so often presented him. He represented such a departure from the priests and male teachers who taught me in high school. Larry saw nuns as equal partners from different religious orders, and as resources that could only enrich the institutions they were a part of, or led.

Carol & Marilyn - 1978

Charism Tribute

Many months have passed since I first read the L.A. Times article on the Vatican Crackdown, and I haven’t followed the story or the issues as closely as Kathy. She is a CSJ Associate (a woman committed to extending the mission and sharing the spirit of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet without becoming a vowed member) and maintains close friendships and active communication with the order. The Leadership Conference is preparing a formal response to the Vatican reports, and I know that it will be thoughtful and balanced (See An American Nun Responds to Vatican Criticism). However, from my peripheral readings, the issue seems to come down to authority and control. Except for a brief 10-year period, when the glamour of Vatican II reforms shone bright, and religious orders were encouraged to renew and transform their missions, many of the old fears and prejudices toward women religious communities have creeped back into the Church. I see vestiges of Cardinal McIntyre’s actions toward the Immaculate Heart Sisters in the Vatican’s move to send 3 American bishops to oversee and direct the course of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious. I hear echoes of my high school Piarist teachers in the Vatican’s report complaining that the women’s organization is: undermining Catholic teaching on homosexuality and birth control; promoting “radical feminist themes” (like the ordination of women); hosting speakers who “often contradict or ignore” Church teachings; and “making public statements that disagree with or challenge the bishops.” It seems to me that the LCWR is doing what the nuns at St. Bernard’s were already doing in the 1970’s – generating questions, gathering and evaluating evidence, and seeking informed conclusions. These were religious women who went beyond the boundaries of a convent and school to reach out and work for and with the poor, the underserved, and the marginalized people in society. They were nuns who would not condemn sinners, but forgave them and worked to make them better. I wish the Church hierarchy could take their cue from the examples of Father Larry Dunphy (who died in 1980), and try trusting and working cooperatively with this other side of religious life – the nuns. Larry believed in them, and so do I.

End Is Near

Done ask nun

Jesus answered,
“I am the Way
And the Truth
And the Life…”
(John 14:6)

(In the fall of 2010, I started writing what became the second half of the essay below, after a tour of the Women’s Jail in Los Angeles. The visit graphically illustrated to me the poor quality of the recovery and rehabilitation programs that are currently available for men and women in county jails and it provoked an epiphany about how much more a dozen or so Christian volunteers were accomplishing in the Catholic Chaplain’s Office for the inmates we worked with. But nothing seemed to change after that particular experience, and I couldn’t find a story to tell. So I put the piece aside, hoping to resurrect it at another time. After a year of further service in the jails with Gavin and his assistant chaplains, I finally began seeing a pattern emerging showing the flow and direction of our program. Unfortunately this evolving vision still has to work itself out in my writing, and the tale is proving longer than I expected. So I’ve divided it, and I’m presenting the first part today. If you’re curious to find out how this story ends, stick around for Part 2. If you’re not, wait for a shorter piece I’ll include in between.)

My nervous apprehensions about being prepared for this evening’s program subsided when I saw Gavin, the Chaplain, speaking privately with Justin and Jaime in the hallway outside his office.
This thing may actually come off tonight, I thought to myself, excitedly, realizing that preparations were already underway.
“Rick is printing separate dorm lists of the names of the men receiving certificates tonight”, I heard Gavin explaining, as I moved next to Justin. “Ah good, Tony’s here”, he added, noticing my presence for the first time. “Now each of you can take a list and call the men out from each of the three dorms”.
“Is this what you wanted?” Rick announced, walking quickly out from the office with three sheets of paper in his hand. Behind him I could see the other volunteer assistants going about their usual activities in preparation for their Wednesday night programs in the other sections of the jail. Sam, Maria, and Rosemary were busy collecting the pamphlets they would use in their respective discussion sessions, along with the meditation books, bibles, and prayer cards they would distribute after. However, between these hurried motions, they still found time to look up inquisitively in our direction, sensing that a special event was being planned in the outer hallway.
“Perfect Rick,” Gavin replied enthusiastically, as he took the sheets of paper. “Exactly what I wanted.”
Last week, Gavin had described to us in detail the type of ceremony he was envisioning for today, in much the same way as he had described many other visionary projects that never quite materialized because of the harsh realities and resistance from the authorities in the jail.
“Tonight”, he continued, “I want everything to come off perfectly. Here”, he said, passing out the sheets Rick had given him. “I want you to go to separate cellblocks and call the men out by name, checking them off as they line up. Tell the deputies that the men on these lists have completed the course and they are graduating today. No one else comes out but those men. We have personalized certificates for each of them”.
“Okay”, I said, interrupting his excited instructions so I could get a clear sequence of actions in my head. “Let me see if I get this straight. We go to the senior deputy to request permission for the ceremony and show him our list of recipients, and then we go to the dorms to speak to the guards.”
“Don’t bother with our usual procedures today”, Gavin said, barely containing his excitement. “The Captain has taken care of everything. All you have to do is go to the dorm guard station and the deputies will help you.”
My head sprang up in surprise at this last statement, and I shot a look of astonishment at Justin and Jaime. We had never depended on the active assistance or cooperation of guards and deputies for any of our jail programs and activities. Our usual routine was to ask the senior deputy for the use of a dayroom and permission to call out the inmates who were interested in participating in our program, Finding the Way in Jail. The dorm guards then permitted us to set up chairs in the dayroom, sometimes assigning trustees to help us, and then releasing the men from their cells to attend. We considered it a good evening when the guards did not ignore us, as we stood silently in front of their desk, waiting for their attention to make our requests, and hoping they didn’t delay too long in actually releasing the men.
“The Captain has taken care of everything?” Justin asked in a bemused manner. “We’re talking about your Captain, the one you’ve been telling us about for the last six months?”
“There’s only one Captain of this jail”, Gavin replied, “and yes, he’s the one I’ve been talking about these last six months. He’s assured me that he has talked to his sergeants and senior deputies, and all the arrangements have been taken care of. All we have to do is set up the music player and call out the men who are receiving certificates.”
"What do you want us to say when we make the announcement at the cell bars?” Jaime asked, knowing that Gavin did not like over-publicizing special events like movies, holiday masses, or activities that hinted at celebrations that might cause envy or resentments among the inmates who did not come out.
“You can go ahead and tell them that this is a special event – a graduation exercise for the men who completed the course and that refreshments will be served.”
“The Captain is taking care of the refreshments?” I asked in disbelief.
“He’s taking care of everything!” Gavin repeated firmly. “So I don’t want anything to go wrong. He will be there himself and will be joining us in for the program so I want everything to go smoothly and professionally. I’ve been telling him about you guys and the different programs we’ve been conducting in the 800 dorms, so I want everything to look good tonight.”

Long corridor, if the leg hurts by Julie70

“Have you ever met this Captain?” I asked Justin later, as we walked along the concrete corridor toward the cellblocks, keeping pace with Jaime, who was pushing the AV cart carrying the music player.
“No”, Justin replied. “In all the Mondays and Wednesdays I’ve come to the jail, I’ve never seen him. I’ve only heard about him from Gavin.”
As we turned the corner into a side corridor leading to the dayroom we normally used, the deputy at the guard desk greeted us with a warm smile.
“You’re set up over there tonight”, he said, pointing toward the opposite side of the building. “We thought you’d want to be closer to the dorms you’ll be pulling the men from.”
We thanked him and walked down the connecting corridor, glancing at each other over the friendly reception by the deputy and the acknowledgement that this event had been discussed, planned, and prepared by deputies who usually kept their distance from our activities and us. As we approached the second guard desk, we immediately noticed that it was filled with a large crowd of uniformed men, buzzing with movement and talk.
“You are set up over here,” a sergeant said, moving away from the circle of deputies and greeting us with another smile, as he directed us toward the dayroom. It was already set up with 2 large, white serving tables pushed up against the back wall and two rows of chairs lined up in front of them.
“Are these enough?” he asked, pointing at the plastic patio chairs used in all county jails.
“We have 45 men on our list receiving certificates,” I replied.
“We’ll need about 10 more,” Justin said after counting the chairs.
“I’ll take care of it right now,” the sergeant said, as he peeked out the door and beckoned another deputy who was hovering nearby.
“Steve”, he said to the deputy, “see about getting 10 more chairs while I show these gentlemen where the electrical outlets and food racks are located.”
“Sure, Sarge,” he replied, “I’ll get right on it.”
As the deputy hurried down the corridor searching for a trustee, I again traded an astonished glance at Justin over the solicitous attentions we were receiving. He simply shrugged his shoulders in amazement and smiled.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” he said, passing me to join Jaime and the sergeant who were plugging the extension cord into the outlet in the nearby office.
When the extra chairs arrived and were arranged to form a third line facing the tables and wall, we walked back toward the guards, each of us holding a list, corresponding to one of the three dorms surrounding the station.
“May we call the men now?” Justin asked the sergeant.

Inmates

“Of course”, he replied, scanning the semi-octagonal array of dorm cells in front of the circular guard station. “But wait until the Captain’s finished talking with those inmates in 813 before you announce there.”
For the first time I noticed a medium-sized man, with wavy black hair, chatting with three or four inmates near the bars of the cellblock. His friendly, open face surprised me by reminding me of the ruddy, Irish-Mexican-AmRickan face of Father Dunphy. Larry was the Catholic school principal of my first high school teaching job, and the blue eyes of his usually stern and serious visage would always twinkle with mirth at one of Kathy’s jokes or stories, during many of our TGIF’s at the convent of our mutual friends. This Captain wore the same khaki colored uniform as all the other deputies clustered around the guard station, and I hadn’t bothered to inspect his collar for the identifying double silver bar insignia of a captain. He was having a jovial exchange with a small cluster of inmates on the other side of the steel bars, so I joined Justin to help him with his dorm.
“You have the louder voice,” Justin said. “Why don’t you get their attention and I’ll read the names?”
“Sure”, I replied, happy to finally be doing something besides watching the noisy action around us. “Radio!” I called out loudly, soliciting the attention of the interned men inside the noisy dorm bay. Moments later the answering shouts of “Radio! Radio” came from inside the cell dorm, affirming my request for their attention and reinforcing it with their own voices.
“Good evening gentlemen”, I began, slowly and deliberately. “We are here tonight from the Catholic Chaplain’s Office to celebrate the completion of a course we have been offering over the last 5-weeks. 45 men from these dorms have participated in this program and we will be calling them out tonight for a special ceremony. When you hear your name, please line up by the door and you’ll be released to the dayroom where the ceremony will take place. Thank you for your attention, and God bless you.”
“God bless you”, came the answering prayer from many of the men in the cell. Then Justin started reading the names from his list.

reserve_deputies2007

Jail Dorm

I stood apart for a moment, observing this cacophonic spectacle, which I’ve come to accept as normal. Jail cells are rarely quiet places, and they appear especially loud and unruly on the occasions when competing voices are raised from officers, deputies, medical orderlies, and chaplains, all talking to inmates in different cellblocks at the same time. The Captain was talking to men in one dorm, deputies were calling for men from another, orderlies were passing out prescribed medicines, and Justin and Jaime were reading out names. When you factored in the questions, responses, and talking coming from the men inside the cells, the effect could feel chaotic and unsettling. But there was a purpose for all these interactions, and every person felt a priority. There was a time when our small trio of chaplains would have been overlooked and ignored, or told to wait until all the other jail business was over. We would have stood quietly to the side, watching the prisoners inside the cells, catching their occasional glances of recognition from behind the bars, and nodding back to them in silent greeting. But tonight was different. All the logistical details and preparations had been made for us and we were given quick access to the men who had participated in a specially designed, multimedia course over the last 5-weeks. During that time we had expanded upon our typical 23-pamphlet, Finding the Way program, to include the study of the biblical King David and the history of the early Church. We had traveled a long and bumpy road in our ministry with the men in these maximum-security dorms over the course of the last six months. Back in December, we were only allowed to meet with small groups of 8 to 12 men from prescribed dorms in the 800 sections of the jail. Tonight we were recognizing the efforts and consistent attendance of 45 men who had committed to participating in our readings, viewings, and discussions. They had helped transform a program that had once been perceived by jail officials as a do-good, Christian prayer group, to tonight’s recognition as an interactive, faith-based, recovery and rehabilitation program. We had come a long way in the 2 years I had been associated with this Jail Ministry, and I felt good having been a witness and a party to some of the changes that had begun happening in the last six months.

A.D. Certificate

Strangely enough, the first time I began suspecting the true potential of Finding the Way in Jail as a recovery and rehabilitation program was in November of 2010, when Gavin invited Rick and me to accompany him to the Women’s Jail in Los Angeles. He had been invited by a sergeant downtown to attend a meeting for submitting bids on contracts with the Sheriff’s Department. It was called an RFP meeting, a Request for Proposals. Since he had never been to one before, he thought that Rick’s background in contract bidding, and mine in writing grant proposals, would help him understand what was going on. I agreed to go along, although I wasn’t too clear about my role in the process. I imagined it would be an all day workshop explaining how to submit proposals for rehabilitation programs in jail. When I asked Rick, a longtime volunteer assistant chaplain, about it, he gave me a little more insight.
“I think Gavin was intrigued by the invitation to join these private vendors,” he explained. “Our own program, Finding the Way in Jail, is faith-based, and has only been used in this men’s jail. He would love to see how it compares with other programs, and perhaps expand it into other facilities as well. I wanted to go along because I’ve never seen this new Lynwood jail. I’d love to see how it operates and what programs it offers the inmates. I’m not sure how competitive our program will be against the private companies who do this for profit. The Request for Proposal workbook they gave us demands all types of insurance certificates, waivers, and OSHA assurances that we don’t use or need in the Chaplain’s Office. I’m going more out of curiosity than in actually trying to bid on a contract.”
Rick’s approach to this proposal meeting calmed my apprehensions about the value of my presence, and it whetted my curiosity as well.

I’d been working as a volunteer for the Catholic Chaplain’s Office for about a year at that time. I went to the jail once a week and usually teamed with Justin, another volunteer assistant chaplain, in facilitating discussion groups with the inmates in the maximum-security cellblocks. The content of these sessions, called Finding the Way in Jail, was the material in 23 easy-to-read pamphlets that attempted “to help individuals in jail talk honestly about life, God, and faith”. I was comfortable with the format because it reminded me a lot of the peer leadership and conflict mediation groups that I had led or supervised as a teacher and administrator in senior and junior high schools. Only these discussion groups were comprised of self-selected convicts and felons who had spent years in and out of juvenile facilities and jails, and who were now seeking to change their lives by admitting their reliance on God and each other. I found these circles of men to be a powerful mixture of faith, prayer, and a practical determination to make better choices in a life outside of jail. While Catholic dogma, was the guiding principle of the program, the sessions concentrated more on developing a spiritual relationship with God, prayer, and using the actions and teachings of Christ as the model for a loving and happy life outside of jail. I considered it a religious program that challenged the men “to a different way of thinking about themselves, about God, and about their behavior”. However, I too was unsure how it would stack up against the commercially developed recovery and rehabilitation programs offered by private companies.

FTW Folder 1

The Women’s Correction Center I visited in Los Angeles is the jail of the stars. This is the jail where Paris Hilton, Kloe Kardashian, and Lindsay Lohan were incarcerated for brief times. It is far from a luxury hotel, but its appearance is not as intimidating or oppressive as the Men’s Jail in Los Angeles. From the outside it looks like a massive medical center, with bright stucco walls, gleaming windows, and modern architecture. We were quickly directed by the entry guard into an adjacent parking structure and then met by a female deputy escort. We waited there for about 15 minutes for the arrival of five more visitors and were then escorted into a nearby building. There was a noticeable absence of security checkpoints and observation windows in this section of the jail complex. In total, there were about 20 professionally dressed, men and women gathered in the briefing room. A male sergeant, one female deputy, and two female administrative assistants conducted the meeting, whose purpose, we were told, was to review the Request For Proposals requirements for a Gender-Responsive Rehabilitation Program for Female Offenders. The sergeant, a burly man with crew cut blonde hair, began the orientation with a joke I quickly forgot. He introduced himself as the officer in charge of rehabilitation programs at the jail and stated that the Sheriff’s mission was to decrease recidivism by increasing the number and quality of recovery and rehabilitation programs in the women’s jails. The purpose of the meeting was to review the PFR procedures and documents, clarify timelines, and answer questions. A tour of the current programs already in place in the jail would conclude the meeting.

Linsday Lohan

crdf_sm

Paris Hilton

My prior experiences with orientation meetings on submitting competitive grants convinced me that they were laboriously long and boring. In those previous meetings, the educational officials began by distributing and reviewing the contents of bulky, manual binders, filled with applications, timelines, writing instructions, and appendices packed with sample documents and forms. Technical experts would then lecture us on each section and we would highlight, flag, or attach post-its to vital parts. Thankfully, none of those things happened at this meeting, on the other hand I didn’t get much substantive information from it either. The only handouts were a short, one-page agenda, and a one-page schematic of the current programs offered at the jail. Then the sergeant turned the meeting over to the point administrative assistant. She began by reminding the contractors that the RFP binder of procedures and requirements was available online and they were responsible for downloading and using it for bidding. She then cited the section numbers and titles that were important. No technical experts spoke, and no specific instructions or explanations were given. Most of the questions asked by the contractors were answered by the statement, “please submit them in writing, and the answers will be posted online by November 17”. The contractors were also reminded that their proposals were due no later than December 15, by 3 o’clock, and that they would be evaluated and graded by professional proposal readers. That was it! The meeting was over, and my head was spinning at the brevity and scarcity of information.

RFP

The only proposal goals and objectives requested by the sergeant was that the programs increase recovery and rehabilitation, and decrease recidivism. I’d heard no description or explanation of what that meant or how effectiveness was to be measured. I borrowed the proposal binder that Gavin was holding and looked at the appendices again. They were crammed with licenses, certificates, and affidavits. They made absolutely no sense to me, and they hadn’t been explained during the briefing. These requirements had no connection with the Finding The Way in Jail program that we conducted twice a week with the male inmates in our jail. I couldn’t tell if I was the only one suffering from this lack of understanding, and the inability or unwillingness of the sergeant to answer questions asked by the vendors further confused me.
“Will we be provided with office space?” asked a slender, blonde-haired woman, in a starchy, tailored suit.
“We’ll get back to you on that,” the burly sergeant replied, noncommittally.
That makes no sense, I thought to myself. How could a resident recovery and rehabilitation program not have office space in a jail? At least the Chaplain’s program already had an office and storage space in the jail we serviced.
“Is there an assessment instrument that you use for a program, or do we use our own?” another man asked.
The sergeant looked befuddled by the question and turned to his assistants for support. Getting no response from them, he repeated the mantra, “Send that question to us in writing and we’ll get back to you online.”
The only question the sergeant did answer was about scheduling the programs into the prison day. The sergeant directed our attention to the second handout.
“These are the classes we currently offer in our Recovery/Rehabilitation curriculum on a daily and weekly basis. The proposals that are selected will need to fit into this schedule, although I expect some changes and accommodation will have to occur”.
Looking at the grid of classes on the paper, I saw that some of the offerings seemed appropriate in a women’s jail: Parenting, AA, Job Skills, Anger Management, and Writing. There were two sections of religious services labeled Jehovah’s Witnesses and Catholic Bible Study. There were also two prominent blocks of class offerings during the week – something called The Blanket Project, and The MP3 Player Program. I wondered what these two types of recovery and rehabilitation programs were, because their titles were so cryptic (Blanket?) and general (MP3 Player?).
“Just remember that you’re the experts”, the sergeant concluded defensively. “A commission will evaluate and grade your proposals and then make their recommendations to the Board of Supervisors. The Board will make the final decision. After a short break, we’ll take you on a tour of some of our classes and a typical dorm.”

My head was spinning from all the unexplained input I’d received that morning, and all the questions I had about recovery and rehabilitation programs. The one island of certainty in this tempest of data and queries was that the Catholic Chaplain’s Office, which had an office and workspace in the jail, provided a concrete service the men who wished to participate. However, the status and merit of our program compared to the services provided by these other organizations and companies in the room were unclear. I paged through the thick RFP binder again, shaking my head as I looked around the room. Obviously these people made a living by following these cumbersome, arcane directions, and producing some kind of a proposal for services. Before I could share my doubts with Gavin or Rick, the sergeant and deputy resumed the meeting and took us on a tour of the jail.

We walked down a wide, brightly painted hallway, and entered a large windowed chamber with glass doors on opposite sides. An observation booth, composed of darkened windows, with a retractable teller drawer, stood at one side of the room. I recognized it as a security checkpoint, similar to the sally port lobby in the men’s jail. However, I marveled at its un-prison-like design and construction. There were none of the harsh sounds and sights of steel bars, and metal doors, with thick bulletproof portholes, grinding back and forth as deputies and authorized personnel entered and exited the jail. This could have been a lobby to an intensive care hospital room – except there was nowhere to sit, and a uniformed deputy behind the darkened glass controlled the doors. We dropped our driver’s licenses into the teller drawer and received guest badges in return. When all licenses were exchanged, the lock on the glass door was released and we entered the women’s jail.

CRDF Corridor

Our footsteps were muted on the tiled floors of the brightly lit corridor. The first evidence that we were in a jail was a line of five women inmates being led by a female deputy on the opposite side of the hallway. They wore oversized, pale green tunics and white slippers, and they cast their eyes downward as we passed them. We then entered a large bay with two elevators on opposite sides, and divided ourselves into two groups for the trip to the second floor. On exiting, we walked a short distance to another windowed corridor with a classroom on one side. There were eight green clad women standing over tables covered with blankets, holding scissors and sewing materials. A deputy stepped out of the classroom to explain that this was the blanket-making class that was part of the Recovery/Rehabilitation program they offered. I was paralyzed by disbelief. Looking around to see the reaction of Rick and Gavin to this class, I spotted them edging away from the main group and standing silently at the far peripheries of the tour group. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! This was an instructional program? This class was considered a recovery and rehabilitation program? The scene reminded me of documentaries I’d seen of Indian reservations showing a circle of women kneeling on the ground weaving blankets for tourists. The supervising deputy explained that the women inmates were making blankets for charity organizations. The thick linen was donated and the ladies cut and hemmed the parts into blankets. Cynically, I wondered if blankets were the only objects these women produced here, or if pine straw, wild grass, or weed stems were also brought in so they could weave them into baskets as well.

quechua-indian-woman-selling-colorful-handmade-blankets-

Indian Baskets

Our guides then led us to the third floor where we passed through another glass door into a dormitory bay. The absence of bars and the carpeting on the floor immediately struck me. A semi-circular counter with a computer monitor served as the guard desk, and the middle of the open room contained tables and stools. There was a glassed-in, open-air dayroom to the side, and side-by-side cell doors with port windows on two levels against the wall. Looking into one open cell, I saw that it contained a bunk bed with a toilet and desk. In comparison to the men’s dorm cell, this was a private and luxurious setting. The guard explained that the dorm housed 124 women. Half were seated at the benches and tables, silently eating their lunches, while the other half remained in their cell rooms waiting their turn. Two trustees were standing by the entrance to the glassed-in dayroom, changing earplugs on wire headphones and stacking medium-sized, square jewel cases.
“That’s our MP3 Player Program,” the deputy explained. “Inmates who wish to can sign up for it. When weather permits they can sit in the dayroom listening to a wide selection of downloads – music and lectures.”
My naïve and optimistic visions of women being taught to create, edit, and develop audio programs dissipated with the reality of the tower of MP3 players awaiting distribution. I don’t know what depressed me more – the numbed silence from the women staring at us from the tables as they ate, or the realization that the two programs I had seen offered them the lowest levels of intellectual activity. Blanket making and audio headphones were nothing more than busy work and distractions. I listened mutely as the vendors asked more questions about the routines of the female inmates, but there was nothing more that I wanted to see. I followed silently as we walked back to the security checkpoint to recover our driver’s license and then returned to the orientation room where we were released.

MP3 Player 3

It wasn’t until Rick, Gavin, and I stepped back into the car, that I finally felt free to speak my mind.
“Gavin,” I began slowly, “now let me see if I have this figured out right. Every jail or prison provides access to religious chaplain services, where the spiritual needs of the men can be addressed. That’s why we have an office and storage space inside the jail, while those outside providers don’t.”
“That’s right, “ Gavin replied. “The constitutional separation of Church and State requires that inmates have access to religious services.”
“Okay,” I continued. “But those services are restricted to only minister to the spiritual needs of the inmates. That means leading prayers services; giving the sacraments, like confession and the Eucharist; and providing one-on-one counseling sessions at the bars.”
“That’s right,” Gavin replied, “and most chaplains and prison volunteers keep it at that.”
“So how did Finding the Way in Jail come about? Did it evolve out of your prayer services?”
“It didn’t evolve on its own,” Rick interrupted. “Gavin developed it.”
“That’s right,” Gavin explained. “In talking to the men over time, I saw that many of them experienced jail as a transformational moment with God, where they could let Him into their lives and begin making changes in their behavior. These men were at a crossroads and they were looking for guidance. My Alcoholics Anonymous background helped me understand them, and I saw that these men were their own best resources in helping themselves make changes. They just needed a structure and some guided topics for discussion. I explained my ideas to Father Gerard, and together, over time, we developed and wrote a series of pamphlets, or folders, for a program we called Finding the Way in Jail. He made sure that the content was consistent with Catholic teachings and dogma, but it allowed plenty of opportunities for discussion about repentance, and changing the behaviors and choices that put them in prison. ”
“So our program doesn’t exist in other jails or prisons?” I asked.
“No it doesn’t,” Gavin replied, “we’re the only one.”
“Wow,” I exclaimed. “I’m shocked. It’s such a great program. Especially when I compare it to those two classes we saw today.”
“I couldn’t stand looking at the blanket making class,” Gavin declared angrily, glancing out the car window at the crowded parking lot. “I felt like I was being smothered and I had to get away from there.”
“Yeah,” Rick agreed. “I just stayed in the back. I couldn’t look either.”
“Those two classes were supposed to be a Recovery and Rehabilitation program?” I asked rhetorically. “Well, I can tell you one thing,” I continued. “As a former school teacher and principal, I can say that Finding the Way in Jail provides better practical services than what I saw in jail today, and I bet we’re competitive with the private companies who are submitting proposals.”
“Yeah,” added Rick, “but because we are part of the Chaplain’s Office, we don’t have the legal infrastructure to compete with them. We don’t have any of the legal requirements, documentation, or certificates needed to make a bid for services.”
“Well, I’m determined to make the program better”, Gavin said, “and I’m praying for God’s assistance. You and Justin are doing a wonderful job among the men in the maximum-security dorms. You trust the men and the program. I truly believe opportunities will arise, and I want all of us to be prepared to take advantage of them. I don’t know what they will be, but I have faith that God will let this program grow.”
That was my first indication of the ideals that Gavin was privately formulating for the program he and Father Gerard had developed 10 years before.

To Be Continued.

Finding the WAY 20

Bit by bit,
Putting it together…
Piece by piece –
Only way to make a work of art.
Every moment makes a contribution,
Every detail plays a part.
Having just a vision’s no solution,
Everything depends on execution:
Putting in together –
That’s what counts.

Small amounts,
Adding up to make a work of art.
First of all you need a good foundation,
Otherwise it’s risky from the start.
Takes a little cocktail conversation,
But without the proper preparation,
Having just a vision’s no solution,
Everything depends on execution.
The art of making art
Is putting it together –
Bit by bit.
(Putting it Together: Sunday in the Park With George – Stephen Sondheim, 1983)

The morning was crisp and fresh, with a bright blue sky and few clouds. Had I been in California, I would have expected the outdoor temperature to complement this beautiful day, but not here. I’d been in Washington D.C. during late winter and early springs before – when Toñito was an undergrad at George Washington University in 1996 and 1997. So I knew that sunny days didn’t always correspond to warm weather. Although the sun glistened off housetops, tree branches, and budding flowers, gusting chilly winds kept driving the temperatures lower and lower. I buttoned my corduroy coat, lowered my chin, and pressed Kathy’s entwined arm closer against my side, hoping to generate some warmth. But I couldn’t keep my face out of the wind for long. As we turned the corner onto Wisconsin Avenue, gleaming limestone spires suddenly materialized through the bare and boney branches of the tree orchard across the street. I hadn’t expected to see the Cathedral so soon, and I certainly wasn’t prepared to see the massive building exploding into an impressionist mural of a million points of color, sparkling light, and dark shadows. Last August when we stayed at the condominium of Kathy’s sister and brother-in-law, Mary Ellen and Bill, for the Hurricane wedding of their oldest daughter, Margi (see Hurricane Wedding) – the thick, green foliage of this orchard had obstructed the church from view. On that summer morning, we had to walk an entire block up Wisconsin to find a break in the tree line and finally get a clear view of the towering cathedral.

Kathy and I had decided the night before to attend a church service at the National Cathedral, and we were both excited at the prospect. Not only had we never set foot inside this iconic structure (when we were here last, it was closed because of Earthquake damage), but I had never been to a Protestant service before. I was part of the pre-Vatican II generation who was taught that it was sacrilegious to attend non-Catholic services and we risked our immortal souls by doing so. Nevertheless, I was always curious about what took place in Protestant churches. Kathy was equally excited about going and she’d looked up the Cathedral website to choose the best time. We picked the 11:15 celebration of the Holy Eucharist with guest preacher, Rev. Dr. Samuel Wells.

I’d been inside many cathedrals in the U.S. before. In Los Angeles, San Francisco, New York, and Savannah, but none were as physically impressive or grandiose as the Washington National Cathedral. It crowns the highest point in the District of Columbia, and is visible for miles and miles. The classic Gothic architecture reminded me of the beautiful edifices of Europe – Chartres, Notre Dame, and Canterbury. However, the differences between Old and New World structures were immediately apparent. Although copied from the Gothic models of England and Europe, this American cathedral was a 20^th Century edifice. It was not constructed slowly and meticulously over generations, but was built quickly and efficiently over a period of 83 years, beginning in 1907. This was evident as soon as we entered the building. There was nothing ancient or storied in the church. The stained glass windows, while beautiful and colorful, looked repetitive, as though punched from the same press. I wasn’t swept skyward toward the vaulted ceiling of the church, because a finely meshed screen, stretching across the arches, obstructed the view. I was momentarily disillusioned by this lack of ornamentation, until I remembered that this wasn’t a Roman Catholic temple, filled with Medieval and Renaissance paintings of biblical figures, side altars with statues of saints and madonnas, or row after rows of votive candles. This was a “reformed church”, guided by the principles of Martin Luther and John Calvin, who had wanted to eliminate the gaudy excesses of the Roman church.

The organist began playing as soon as we entered the church, and the music seemed to accompany the swaying motions of people as they slowly walked down the aisles and found places in the pews. I used the musical interlude to explore the side aisles of the church, inspecting the stained glass windows as I walked along. When I joined Kathy in a middle pew, she quickly pointed at the liturgy guide she was holding.
“Look, Tony,” she whispered excitedly, showing me the names at the top of the pamphlet. “There are two women celebrants on the altar. Two women priests will be saying this mass! This is another sign that I was meant to be here.”
“Wow,” I agreed, startled at the idea of actually seeing an ordained female priest officiate at a “mass”. “This will be different,” I added.
Suddenly the organist stopped playing and I heard the unaccompanied, angelic harmonizing of a choir. The soaring and melodic sounds were not coming from the choir loft above my head, but from the back of the church. There I spotted a formally gowned choir in bright robes of white and red. The unique blending of pre-pubescent boy’s voices, mixed with those of men and women, had a wondrous effect. The sounds were soaring and beatific. It was as if a choir of angels had floated earthward and hovered in the back of the church, announcing the beginning of mass and a call to prayer. And then it began, the long and stately processional down the center aisle. Altar servers, dressed in albs and surplices led the way with cross and candles, followed by gowned choir members, boys, men, and women, and then the three celebrants and homilist, men and women. It was elegant and inspiring, and it was only when choir, altar servers, celebrants, and preacher were arranged around the altar that it hit me: This was a high mass!

In my youth, in the 1950’s, Catholic parishes offered one or two “high masses” a month, usually on Sunday or on a feast day. The mass began with a long, stately procession with altar boys carrying candles, crucifix, and an incense censer on a long chain, followed by two or three priests. The mass included a full choir positioned in the second story loft, and there were many musical interludes throughout the mass. These ceremonies usually lasted 90 minutes and I avoided them at all costs. Unlike many older Catholics, I was not upset when those long and elaborate ceremonies disappeared in 1962, with the changes of Vatican II, but I did retain a tiny nostalgic memory of those high days of ceremonial opulence. All my apprehensions and wariness about attending a Protestant service quickly fell away in the wonderful embrace of the Episcopalian liturgy on this Second Sunday in Lent, in the church officially called the Cathedral Church of St. Peter and St. Paul.

The liturgical divisions, sequence, and language of the ceremony were eerily familiar and comfortable for me. Mainly, I suppose, because the prayers, invocations, and responses used in the Episcopalian rite matched up perfectly to the Vatican II missal, which the Catholic Church abandoned this year. To the celebrant’s greeting of “The peace of the Lord be always with you”, the congregation still responded, “And also with you”, instead of the new, retro version of “And with your Spirit.” Another similarity was the use of two Readings from scripture before the proclaiming of the Gospel. The first reading was from Genesis (17:1-7, 15-16), whereby God gave Abraham his new name and repeated the covenant that his wife Sarah would bear a son, and he would become “the father of many nations”. The second was the epistle to the Romans (4:13-25), in which St. Paul pointed out that God’s covenant with Abraham was maintained by the righteousness of Abraham’s unwavering faith, and not through the law. Finally, the Gospel was from Mark (8:31-38), in which Jesus foretold his death and resurrection, and then outlined the steps required of men and women who wished to become his followers. The three selections contained foundational principles of the gospel: covenant, faith, and resurrection. As we settled in our pews to hear the sermon of the invited preacher, Reverend Dr. Samuel Wells, the Dean of the Duke University Chapel. I wondered how he would meld those three important religious principles into one coherent theme, and if I would find it interesting or meaningful.

Looking back on the 7 days we spent in Washington D.C. last March, I have to admit that it reminded me of the time we were in New York, only without the hotel and dining expenses. We also had the added benefit of a vehicle and total access to an apartment, so it was very convenient. We organized tight itineraries, which always got us home by 5:30 pm, just in time for sunset. The trip combined the active itineraries we usually organized for ourselves when Kathy and I travel alone, along with the comforts of coming home at night and relaxing in a cozy setting for dinner and lounging about. We were there through an experimental house-swap with Kathy’s older sister, Mary Ellen, and her husband, Bill. The same day that we flew into Dulles International on Saturday, March 3, Bill and Mary Ellen were winging their way to Los Angeles, to take up residence in our home in Canoga Park, California. We were going to spend the next seven days living in the capitol, while they traveled around the southland. In the past, Kathy and I only visited D.C. for specific, short-term reasons: Toñito’s college theatrical performances, graduations, or weddings, requiring only weekend stays in hotels and brief sightseeing excursions. Actually staying in a comfortable condominium in the Cathedral Heights section of the city, just north of Georgetown, would allow us to leisurely visit places we had never seen before, both in, and outside, the city, and to casually make up our itinerary on a day-by-day basis. We would also finally get the chance of driving in and around the bordering states around the capitol, a task we had always ceded to family members, or by using the metro system. By using my journal, guidebooks, and pamphlets we picked up along the way as reminders, I could almost illustrate our daily adventures like a coloring book of our trip.

On a late Saturday afternoon, after a quick flight across the country, our niece, Margi met us at the airport. This was the first time she had ever done this, and it was a great relief for us to have a relative pick us up and drive us straight to the condo on Watson Place. As I watched the signs and leafless forests pass by, while she and Kathy talked in the front, I noticed that we were taking a new route into the city. When I mentioned this, Margi admitted that each member of her family had their own unique route to their parent’s home, and she preferred entering along the Potomac, through Maryland. When we finally arrived at our destination, she gave us a quick tour of the apartment and an in-service of the kitchen, garage, and laundry, and invited us to dinner that evening. Kathy and I unpacked and toasted a beautiful sunset from the balcony of the condo, thanking our hosts on the other side of the country for their generosity. Later that evening Margi and Ron picked us up and took us to dinner at the Irish Inn at Glen Echo Park, just outside the city, where we got to know her new husband a little better.

As I mentioned earlier, on Sunday, we went to Mass at the Cathedral and then walked through the Glover Park area to have lunch with Brian, the youngest of M.E. and Bill's children. While walking along Wisconsin Ave. we passed the Russian embassy. There we encountered a lively pro-Syrian demonstration across the street from where the voting for Russian Prime Minister was taking place. After meeting Brian, we had lunch at Rockland’s Barbeque and Grilling Company and listened as he filled us in on the family news. He also gave us a practical orientation to the neighborhood, pointing out the easiest places to park and shop. Later that evening we tested out his information by driving to the new Safeway supermarket nearby to stock up on groceries for the week, and familiarized ourselves with the car, garage, and the neighboring streets.

By Monday, the local weather had taken a dramatic turn, and the warm temperatures of Saturday took a sudden nosedive. We were clothed in bundled layers, with neck scarves and gloves as we drove to Hyattsville in Maryland. Kathy wanted to visit a former colleague who was now working for the Archdiocese of Washington D.C. From those administrative offices we drove to the nearby Basilica of the National Shrine of the Immaculate Conception, which was on the campus of Catholic University, on Michigan Ave. We had visited the Basilica once before, but on this occasion we spent more time wandering through the underground crypt area, inspecting the myriad chapels and shrines. The surprise event of the day was experiencing snow flurries in afternoon as we drove to see the Pope John Paul II Center, which was unfortunately closed. We saw the last of the flurries from the condo balcony, and then took a taxi to meet another nephew, Billy, and his partner Jeff at the Founding Farmers Restaurant on Pennsylvania Ave. for dinner.

I hadn’t noticed it so much on Sunday when we walked to the National Cathedral and down Wisconsin Avenue to Glover Park, but beginning on Monday night, after walking around the Basilica and through the underground crypts, that my knees were beginning to ache. Every evening thereafter they got progressively more and more sore as Kathy and I walked and climbed throughout Mount Vernon, Alexandria, the Newseum, the Pentagon, and Capitol Hill. But each afternoon we recuperated by hoisting up our legs on the balcony coffee table, and raising our glasses in thanksgiving for a marvelous day.

On Tuesday, we again drove out of the city, only this time it was to Virginia to see Mount Vernon and Alexandria. I found driving in D.C. and its adjoining states to be quite an experience. Strangely enough, it reminded me very much of driving in Mexico D.F., only D.C. drivers actually obey traffic laws and signals. However both capitols have streets that suddenly change names, and street signs that are not easily spotted or readable. Traffic is incredibly thick and dense during rush hour because most of the millions of people who work in the capitol don't actually live there. The bridge on-ramps, interchanges, and off-ramps are never labeled clearly nor marked at early intervals, so maneuvering is a nightmare, unless you are already familiar with them. What’s really irritating is to be on a major highway like the Washington Memorial Parkway and never see a marker, sign, or post identifying it. The last thing I ever want to do is find myself driving the roads outside the city at night. There are few street signs and no streetlights. One needs bat-senses to drive those roads at night. I can see now why East Coast drivers mock California highways and freeway signs for being excessive and overly informative. It’s as if California roads were marked for nearsighted tourists and map-less travelers. The only thing orderly and predictable about D.C. is the public transportation system, buses and metro, and the pedestrian-friendly layout of the city. However, despite the difficulties getting there, Mount Vernon and Alexandria were fabulous places to visit!

Before ever visiting Mount Vernon, I assumed it would be a sumptuously, ornate mansion, much like Hearst’s gaudy castle, San Simeon (Xanadu, in the movie, Citizen Kane), in California. So, I was pleased to discover that I was completely wrong. George Washington’s Mount Vernon plantation was very reflective of the Cincinnatus type of selfless, general-farmer that he wished to emulate. It was a neatly laid out, working farm, with a simple, utilitarian manor on a hill. The mansion had the feel of a large bed-and-breakfast, with many, many bedrooms to host the endless stream of visitors who came visiting the first President of the United States from Europe and the other 12 colonies. Although a large dining room was added to the west wing of the house, which also served as a ballroom, the real entertaining must have been done from the back porch of the house, with its beautiful vista of the flowing Potomac. I especially enjoyed the walk around the grounds before and after our tour of the mansion. We explored the gardens and stables, and then walked down a long, shaded, dirt road to the tomb of George and Martha Washington.

I didn’t realize how solemn and reverential the wooded enclosure was until the docent of the tomb shushed a gaggle of noisy elementary school children. They had burst out of the woods, running and laughing, but fell immediately silent at the sight of a tall, trench-coated black man with upraised arms and stony face.
“Please,” he rumbled in the Old Testament voice of a prophet. “This tomb is hallowed ground where the remains of the dead are buried. Respect is required at all times.”
In shocked bewilderment, the six children, along with their two adult chaperones, listened in awe as the docent went on to explain how the bones of George and Martha Washington laid in the two sarcophagi, lying side by side in the vault, and the family remains rested in the back. Two boys knelt in Tebow-like fashion, with heads bowed and their elbows resting on one upraised knee. It was a sober and reassuring reminder that this place was not an interactive children’s museum, but the public cemetery of our first president.

The drive back to Alexandria on the George Washington Parkway was much more relaxing after having already traveled it once. We paused at a few spots to take scenic pictures of the river and two historic forts on the shore, and finally stopped for lunch at an Irish pub called O’Connell’s on King Street. Then we spent the next two hours exploring the Old Town section of the city, visiting the Marina, The Torpedo Factory Art Center, Market Square, and Gadsby’s Tavern, where the retired President Washington held his last military review in 1799. The drive home was thrown into high relief when we missed the Rock Creek Parkway turnoff from the Arlington Memorial Bridge. Suddenly we had to quickly ad-lib and make our way, nervously, through Foggy Bottom, around Washington Circle, along M Street, and finally up Wisconsin Ave. to Glover Park.

On Wednesday we forsook our private vehicle and took the city bus to Pennsylvania Avenue where we met Brian to explore the Newseum. I’d been mildly curious about this news museum since learning that George Stephanopoulos filmed his ABC Sunday morning show, This Week, there. I wondered how they got that marvelous shot of George, with the Capitol building in the background. Kathy, however, had always been especially eager to see it. We hadn’t gone last summer, because I insisted on going to the inauguration of the Martin Luther King Monument instead, so on this trip the Newseum became a priority. With Brian as our guide, we started with the Berlin Wall exhibit on the bottom floor concourse, shot up the elevator to the 6^th floor terrace view of Pennsylvania Avenue and the Capitol, and then proceeded to work our way back down, floor by floor. I have to admit now that while it was a long and exhausting tour to fit into one afternoon, it was a truly wonderful experience.

Brian really did a great job of shepherding us quickly and efficiently through the almost overwhelming number of exhibits in the museum. His most impressive moment came when he boldly walked into the cordoned-off Pennsylvania Ave Studio, where This Week with George Stephanopoulos is filmed, and received permission to photograph the set and background. While all the exhibits were interesting, I especially liked the Berlin Wall, the Pennsylvania Avenue Terrace and Front Page Gallery on the 6^th Floor, the 9/11 Gallery on the 4^th, the Pennsylvania Ave Studio on the 3^rd, the Interactive Newsroom on the 2^nd, and the Pulitzer Prize Photographs on the First Level. When our knees and feet finally wore out we took the subway metro to Dupont Circle where we lunched at the Circa Restaurant. After separating from Brian, we bussed back to Cathedral Heights. Later that afternoon, after catching a second wind, we drove to the Cathedral for one last visit, so we could walk around the grounds, climb to the Pilgrim’s Gallery for a 360° view of D.C., and tour the underground crypt area. As chance would have it, we also managed to catch a practice session of their magnificent choir in the church. I must confess that I was so impressed with the Cathedral and the Episcopalian services, that if I weren’t Mexican, I’d be very tempted to convert.

On Thursday, Kathy and I again started our day by taking the Wisconsin Ave bus to Pennsylvania Ave and getting off at Washington Circle. From there we walked to the Foggy Bottom Station at George Washington University (GWU), and then took the Metro to the Pentagon. There we met Billy who had arranged a tour of the highly secure center of American military power. I found out just how tight that security was when a military guard, armed with an M-16, stopped me while taking a photograph of Kathy riding up the metro escalator. I quickly learned that photographs were not allowed in or around the Pentagon, even as background shots. Thankfully, he only made me delete the offending photographs from my camera, and then we were free to go. Inside the Pentagon we met up with Billy and his friend, Master Sergeant Bert Gillot, the Non-Commissioned Officer (NCOIC) for Protocol for the Joint Chiefs of Staff, who took us on an hour-long tour of the Defense Department establishment. Our last stop of the tour was the Pentagon Memorial Chapel, which was built at the point of impact where American Airline Flight 77 hit the Pentagon on September 11, 2001. It was the site where the military community came to leave flowers and other symbols of respect and mourning after the tragedy. Only after thanking Bert and Billy for their tour did we find out that the only access to the Pentagon Memorial was from outside the building. We had to walk halfway around the five-sided, public building to find the spot where Flight 77 struck the Pentagon. We stayed for a long time, reading the inscribed messages on the memorials and plaques, and wandering between the barren trees, stark memorial benches, and pools of flowing water. It was a sobering experience, and it took us a while to change mental gears and head back to the metro station. After studying the schematic subway map, we finally decided to take the Metro to Capitol Hill and tour the Library of Congress.

Amazingly enough, with all our planning, driving, and traveling about, the only time Kathy and I got into a snit was at the Library of Congress. I wouldn’t call it a fight, exactly, or even an argument. We didn’t so much disagree, as we simply failed to clearly express our needs and feelings. Before leaving the Pentagon, Kathy said she wanted to eat lunch before exploring the Library of Congress. She hoped to find a restaurant near the Capitol South metro station before proceeding further. My mixed feelings and suppressed thoughts bubbled up as we exited the metro station and I pointed at the nearest restaurants.
“Hmmm, they look pretty crowded,” I said, sounding very pessimistic.
Suddenly Kathy retorted, “Fine then, lets find something to eat at the Library of Congress.”
I hadn’t meant my comments as a criticism or correction to her original idea, but rather than trying to explain, I simply said, “Okay,” swallowing my misgivings of finding a cafeteria at the Library. Looking back now, I should have expressed those doubts and insisted on going to the nearest restaurants and waiting for a table, if necessary. As it turned out, in questioning the security screening guard at the door, Kathy discovered that there were no food facilities at the Library. Kathy then hemmed and hawed about staying or going, going or staying. At first we left the building, only to return, and then we left the building again. By then I was annoyed and frustrated by all this indecision, and my own unwillingness to complain. Kathy’s hunger seemed to be in conflict with her need to satisfy my desire to see the Library. All of these factors were making it impossible to decide on a clear course of action, and preventing me from taking any interesting photographs of the building. Another security guard finally directed us toward a dining area one block away, and we walked to a small diner nearby. That should have been the end of the story until I foolishly expressed my simmering annoyance.
“You know,” I said, unwrapping my napkin from the silverware, “maybe it would be a good idea if we went off on our own tomorrow”. Kathy’s look of wounded pain gave me a momentary pause, but I pressed on. “It’s not like we haven’t talked about the possibility of spending some time on our own. You even mentioned that you want to explore Georgetown.”
Despite my attempts at rationalizing the remark, I knew it wasn’t a nice thing to say, and I saw how she was stung by the frustration and annoyance it conveyed. Kathy stopped talking and said nothing more for the rest of the meal. The stillness was deafening – especially since it had never happened during our entire trip. I regretted my words, but I also knew that at that point, more explaining wouldn’t help. I made a few polite attempts at conversation about the décor of the restaurant, but Kathy wouldn’t respond or engage me, and we ate in silence.
At the conclusion of the meal, Kathy finally looked up and sadly said, “Did you know how awful your statement made me feel?”
At that instant, all I could manage to do was nod and say, “I realized that this wasn’t the best time to say something like that.”
Thankfully, Kathy took that oblique comment as an admission that my words were meant to wound, and she forgave me. The black cloud of hurt-anger passed over us, and we resumed our plans for the afternoon by walking back to the Library of Congress.

The Library of Congress was truly a surprise. I had always assumed that it was primarily a working academic and scientific book room, with lots and lots of desks, tables, and stacks. I did not expect to find an architectural and historical wonder, filled with exhibits, galleries, and art. We gazed at the Great Hall, with it sculptures and murals, toured the second floor exhibits called Creating the United States and The Thomas Jefferson Library, peeked into the Main Reading Room Overlook, and then explored Arts Galleries on the Ground Floor. At the bottom level we happened upon a tunnel that led underground to the U.S. Capitol Visitor Center, on the other side of the hill. We laughingly decided to extend out tour to include the Capitol building, and then took the Metro back to GWU. The next day we actually did decide to spend some time on our own.

On Friday, Kathy went shopping in Georgetown and I took a long walk down Wisconsin Avenue, investigating interesting sites, and taking photographs along the way. I decided to start with Dumbarton Oaks Park, and, if I could, the nearby U.S. Naval Observatory. However, since experiencing the tight security of the Pentagon the day before, I didn’t actually think I’d be able to get very close to the Observatory. You see, although there is a large telescope on the grounds, the site is not an observatory in the traditional sense. It’s actually one of the oldest scientific agencies in the U.S., commissioned by the government for the primary purpose of producing Positioning, Navigation, and the Official Time for the U.S. Navy and the U.S. Department of Defense. Along with those vital functions, the Observatory has also been the official residence of the Vice President of the United States since 1974. So at the back entrance to the Dumbarton Oaks Park, I was surprised to discover an unimpeded walking path that led directly to the rear of the Observatory, and then paralleled the security fence all the way to the Massachusetts Avenue entrance. There, I clearly saw the dome-shaped observatory as I walked along taking photos, and I was a mere stones throw away from the Vice President’s home (well, maybe not that close). When I had my quota of pictures, I retraced my steps to the rear entrance of the Dumbarton Oaks Park, and followed the clearly marked hiking trail that ran along a creek.

It was refreshing to walk along a wooded trail, lined with trees, brush, and wild flowers, and hear the trickle of water flowing over rocks and gravel. The time alone finally gave me a chance to take pictures of the wild daffodills that were starting to bloom, and an opportunity to reflect on our visit to D.C. It was a restful counterpoint to a trip that involved so much action, with tours of museums, churches, and structures of steel and cement. It was there, as I stopped for a moment by a wooden bench overlooking a meadow, that I finally took the time to unpack some of the feelings and reactions I had been storing up over the last week. I thought of people and relatives we had met, the places we had visited, and my unkind words to Kathy on Thursday. Like the murmuring gurgles of the nearby creek, the words of Dr. Wells’ sermon began bubbling in my mind, intertwining themselves in and around my actions and impressions of the last week. Using my recollections of the homily, and a printed version I found on the Internet, I was able to reconstruct aspects of the talk below.

Sitting in the Cathedral, I was brought quickly to attention at the very beginning of the sermon when Dr. Wells posed two challenging questions from the pulpit: “What’s the Christian way to behave right now?” And, “What does it mean to be God’s companion, but at the same time to live in the world?” Having noted the themes in the three earlier readings, I was anticipating that Wells would answer these questions by either concentrating on Abraham’s great faith, or expanding on Christ’s message, that “if any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves and take up their cross and follow me.” Instead, I was surprised to discover that he chose to concentrate on the fact that he was preaching in the National Cathedral and addressing a congregation who probably dealt with laws, litigation, and power. Dr. Wells stated that we could not lead a double life, inhabiting two worlds, the secular and God’s world, at the same time. He proposed instead that we lived in only one world, but needed to speak two languages: the language of contracts and the language of covenants. The idea of contracts went back to the days of Thomas Hobbes and John Locke, when they imagined a time when human beings had no way of trusting one another or holding one another to promises. These philosophers supposed an original agreement whereby everyone gave up some of their individual rights in return for peace and security. This “social contract” created a civil state to protect people’s rights and arbitrate disputes. The dominant word was “contract” – a voluntary agreement between two parties that creates an obligation that can be enforced. But, Dr. Wells insisted, there was another, older language that went back before the language of contracts. This was the language we found in Genesis in the Sunday’s reading – the language of covenant. Genesis describes the covenant God made with Noah, Abraham, and Moses. The whole dynamic of the Old Testament story is of whether God would be faithful to these covenants, even when Israel constantly broke them. These two languages, however, were also very different. Contracts cover limited matters and are a way of keeping them under control, while covenants are about powers that we can never truly hope to control. Covenants are about the most precious things in our life: Who will be holding your hand when you die? Who do you turn to when you are at a crossroads in your life? What gives you a sense of community and belonging, and makes you feel understood and at home? Contracts require a third party to whom we can appeal, but parties to a covenant have no court of appeals. There is not compensation for breaking a covenant, because the covenant was never a means to an end. A covenant, Dr. Wells pointed out, be they between friends or relatives, churches or neighbors, are ends in themselves.

However, Dr. Wells warned, we should not simplistically characterize all contracts as worldly and covenants as heavenly. Instead, he stressed, that we needed to be wary of the one and aim for the other. He noted that Christians often mistakenly start by assuming a covenant with a person without taking the time and care of getting the contract right. “Let’s get the contract right”, he insisted, “and not rush into a covenant.” He guessed that this confusion between contract and covenant uncovered a big part of our misery in life: going through the motions of relating to one another as if we’re in a covenant, but the reality was we felt that the other person wasn’t keeping the terms of the contract. In conclusion, Dr. Wells summed up by advising us to “take contracts seriously, but never assume we can run our whole lives by contracts. Instead, try turning contracts, slowly but surely, into covenants. Contracts can give us security and trust, but only covenants can bring joy and delight.”

While sitting in the Cathedral pews, I at first understood the sermon to be a very cerebral analysis of contracts and covenants. However, now in the shaded solitude of Dumbarton Oaks, the ideas came back to haunt me. Looking back at my interactions with Kathy, relatives, and friends over the course of the week, I realized that the language of contracts and covenants, that Dr. Wells described, was really a way of communicating and maintaining quality relationships with people. In too many marriages, families, and friendships, the belief that they are firmly based on the bonding covenant of love, becomes a license for expressing destructive opinions, statements, or actions that wound or cause injury. In fact, loving and caring covenants can only exist when they are based on the bedrock of fair and just contracts. The same is true for relationships – be they commercial, civil, or familial. When Dr. Wells advised us to “get the contract right”, he meant for us to establish and maintain relationships that are fair, honest, and just. From that beginning, the relationship can grow and evolve into a covenant wherein our actions should always guided by care, empathy, and love. I’d slipped up with Kathy on Thursday. I’d forgotten the fundamental principles of a relationship (contract): being honest and open about concerns or doubts. Instead, I let my feelings simmer and stew, allowing my annoyance to grow into anger that finally found expression in a mean and hurtful statement, that threatened the mood of the entire day. I hoped that I had learned something from Dr. Wells in Washington D.C., the hub of our nation's laws and contracts, that while we aspire to maintain loving covenants with friends, relatives, and spouses, we must “take contracts seriously”, and treat those same people with fairness, honesty, and respect (For the complete text of Dr. Well’s sermon, link to: "There’s Two Ways We Can Do This”).

When I look back on this trip and ask myself, “Why did we do it?” The answer is, “Because we could!” Our current state of retirement and part-time work allowed us to trade homes with Bill and Mary Ellen so we could visit D.C. without the restricting constraints of time, hotel, and expenses. I will confess that of all our stops, the most enjoyable visits were to the National Cathedral and Mount Vernon. The Mass on Sunday, with our follow-up visit to the Cathedral on Wednesday really wowed us. I had considered framing the story of this trip about Lent, but I eventually realized that any tale of this visit had to center around the National Cathedral on a Sunday afternoon, and the language of covenants.

If you are interested in seeing more pictures of our travels around the Washington D.C. area, click on the links below to access my Flickr Albums:

2012-03-03/10 Westchester Place

2012-03-04/07 National Cathedral

2012-03-05 Basilica of the National Shrine

2012-03-05 Catholic University

2012-03-06 Mount Vernon

2012-03-06 Alexandria

2012-03-07 Newseum

2012-03-08 Pentagon

2012-03-08 Library of Congress

2012-03-08 U.S. Capitol

2012-03-09 Dumbarton Oaks

2012-03-09 Georgetown

Even now, says the Lord,
Return to me with your whole heart,
With fasting, and weeping, and mourning;
Rend your hearts, not your garments,
And return to the Lord, your God.
For gracious and merciful is He,
Slow to anger, rich in kindness,
And relenting in punishment.
(Joel 2: 2-18)

The scene was strange from the start. In my two years of working in the jail I’ve never been delayed in getting through the main entrance guard gate. In fact, the regular Wednesday guard on duty usually just waved me through as soon as he recognized me as a volunteer chaplain. But today there were two vehicles backed up behind the retractable gate, and I couldn’t see what the problem was. The usual transaction of showing a driver’s license or badge for quick identification and clearance was not occurring. Soon more cars were stacking up behind me, and drivers were turning off their motors. I noticed that the driver in the car immediately behind me was Jaime, an assistant chaplain, and another volunteer, Diane, was in the car behind him. Diane wasn’t part of the Wednesday crew, so her appearance was doubly strange. I tried putting down a rising sense of dread that this holdup meant trouble in the jail. On one occasion a jail-wide lockdown had prevented all non-sheriff personnel from entering the premises. Finally I saw the guardhouse deputy extend his arm through the window and hand a driver’s license back to a woman in the lead car. But instead of waving her forward under the slowly rising barrier gate, the guard pointed toward the side of the road where the car was to park and wait. Car motors growled to life and the line finally began moving forward. As I pulled up to the kiosk window, preparing to hand the guard my license, I saw that the guard was engrossed in an angry conversation on the phone. He looked at me for a second, and then thankfully waved me forward under the rising gate bar. Driving along the long road heading toward the jail, I saw the cars of the other two volunteers following me in quick succession. I had to laugh over my initial forebodings. If I had been seeking omens of what was in store for us tonight in jail, the serendipitous occurrence of three volunteers arriving at the same time, and riding along the road in a seeming Catholic motorcade of cars was certainly a good sign. It had never happened to me before. Today was Ash Wednesday, and I suddenly felt it was going to be a good day.

Ash Wednesday is the day after Mardi Gras (or Fat Tuesday in French), and the beginning of the 40-day Lenten season. It’s the equivalent of Advent, the four-week prelude to Christmas, only during Lent the Church prepares for Easter. Normally I would go to a morning mass or a prayer service at my parish church to receive my ashes. But this year I decided to receive them in jail instead. You see this Wednesday was different. On most Wednesdays I don’t think about, nor anticipate, what will happen in jail. I just show up and follow instruction – whatever they might be on that day. Usually it means facilitating a group session of Finding the Way in Jail with my partner Justin. But one never knows what to expect in jail. A lockdown may shut down all operations and deny us access to the men. Dayrooms may be occupied for guard training or the processing of inmates for dorm transfers. Or specific cellblocks may be placed on restriction for disciplinary reasons. But today was different. It was Ash Wednesday and I had a clear picture of what was going to happen and what I would be doing in jail on this day – and I wanted to do it right. It was also different because I wanted to describe the experience in writing.

Last year, when I reported for duty on Ash Wednesday, I was stunned to learn that volunteers actually distributed ashes to inmates at the bars of their cell dorms. Gavin assembled a large number of volunteers to distribute ashes to every prisoner who wished them. Although I recognized this as a great service to the men, the image of me reciting a prayer or invocation and making the sign of the cross on a man’s forehead with ashes was so foreign to me that I couldn’t accept it. Even though I participate in “prison ministry”, I have never considered myself a “minister” of any kind. I’m even uncomfortable praying aloud, except for memorized prayers like the Our Father or Hail Mary. As Gavin explained our tasks on that night, I could only stem the rising tide of panic that threatened to engulf me by shutting down all speculations. I just focused on the mechanical tasks I was being asked to perform, and trusting God to get me through the night without making a fool of myself. Somehow I survived that night, but I couldn’t tell you how I did it. I can’t remember what I felt, what I said, or what I did. It was literally an out-of-body experience where I stepped out of myself so I didn’t have to see me distributing ashes to hundreds of men. I know we also de-briefed at the end of that evening, but I can’t remember any of those details either. It was as if my other self, the minister who looked like me while distributing ashes, disappeared the moment the job was done, and my memories of the event evaporated along with him. Since that day a year ago, I have become very familiar with, and more and more at ease in a prison environment. That is not to say that jail has become a natural or comfortable place for me. A jail is by its nature the antithesis to those two words – it is very harsh and very artificial. But I’ve grown to tolerate it – enough so that I’ve stopped studying every new aspect, noting my feelings and reactions, or writing down my thoughts after every visit. I’d gotten used to simply showing up, doing what was asked, conducting a program, and then letting it go at the end of the evening. However, I vowed to change that on this Ash Wednesday. That was my first resolution of this Lenten season: to observe, remember, and record the events of that night in jail.

I noticed two things right away when the three members of our motorcade walked into the Chaplain’s Office and joined the other 4 men and women in the tiny office. Maria, a fellow volunteer who was also the mother of my brother-in-law John, was wearing a green, “Unescorted” badge and Alfredo, Gavin’s assistant and a relentless practical joker, was nowhere to be found.
“My God, Maria.” I exclaimed in mock horror. “How did you get that green badge?”
“I got a promotion,” the tiny lady with lustrous black hair announced proudly, as she pretended to polish the plastic badge. “Now I can go to anywhere in the jail on my own without an Assistant Chaplain to escort me.”
“Congratulations,” I said. “I thought it took over a month to get on that special list. Good for you, but don’t you need to practice getting around the jail before you go off on your own?”
“Actually, it takes about 4 weeks for a new list to come out,” Gavin, the Jail Chaplain, pointed out, before Maria could reply to my kidding. “I submitted a batch of applications for green badges a few weeks ago and they usually take a long time to process. But we managed to make an exception for Maria today. We’re going to need as many chaplains with green badges as possible so we can get to all the dorms.”
“We’re not doing our regular program tonight?” asked Isaac, a new volunteer who had been coming to the jail for less than 6 months.
“No,” explained Gavin. “On Ash Wednesday we distribute ashes to as many men who wish to receive them. So we want to get to every cell at every level before bed check at 8:30 tonight.
“It’s a powerful experience,” added Diane, moving to stand next to Isaac in the office. “I usually come on Monday’s and team up with Connie, another Assistant Chaplain. But I switched for today so I could distribute ashes.”
“I’ve never given ashes,” Isaac said nervously. “What exactly do we say?”
“Not to worry,” said Gavin reassuringly. “I’ll give you a briefing on what we’re doing tonight, and how it works.”
“Is Alfredo here today?” I interrupted suspiciously, peeking into the rear storage room to see if he was there.
“Yes he is,” Gavin replied. “He and three other volunteers are finishing up at the East Facility and will join us soon. They took care of the 800 dorm cells this afternoon, so they won’t be working with us tonight.”
“Okay,” I said warily. “Then can I ask you to give me ashes tonight. Last year Alfredo laid a cross on my forehead that seemed to cover my entire face, and I already had a cross there from my parish priest.”
“Se le paso la mano,” my partner Justin, said in Spanish with a laugh. “Alfredo can get a little carried away when he’s giving ashes.”
“Don’t worry, Tony,” Gavin said soothingly, as he busied himself writing the names of the teams on the white board, along with corresponding cellblock numbers. “I’ll be giving ashes to all the volunteers tonight”. Once he finished writing, he turned around to face us. “Okay, gather round please. We have more than enough volunteers to cover all the cellblocks in teams of two. Maria and Isaac go to the 600’s. Jaime and Tony go to the 700’s, and Justin and Diane go to the 900’s. Sam and I will man the office. Some of you have done this before, but others haven’t, so let me review the procedures. The teams are to follow the usual cellblock protocol of checking in with the Watch Sergeant of the section and getting permission to distribute ashes. Then get the approval from each guard station to announce the service to the inmates and distribute ashes and prayer cards through the bars. Invite all the men who wish to receive ashes to line up and then mark their foreheads with the sign of the cross. Don’t worry if they’re Catholics or not. If non-Catholics have questions or concerns about where the ashes come from, tell them the ashes come from the palm leaves of last year’s Palm Sunday celebration. If they have more questions about the rite, tell them to wait until after the distribution and you can explain the practice in more detail. As each man steps forward to the cell bars, dip your thumb into the cup of ashes and mark the sign of the cross on his forehead saying, ‘Repent and accept the Gospel’. Your partner can give him the prayer card. There’s also a handout explaining the meaning and significance of Ash Wednesday and Lent with your material. Give three sheets to one of the inmates and ask him to place them on a dorm table in case men want to read them for more information”.
“Don’t we say something about ‘dust, and to dust thou shalt return?’ Isaac asked.
“Either statement is acceptable,” Gavin explained. “But in a jail, I prefer to emphasize repentance and forgiveness. Now if you’ll line up,” he added, “I’ll give you your ashes now.”
“Can you make the cross a small one,” I whispered as I stepped in front of Gavin.
“Just trust in the Lord, Tony”, Gavin chided me. “Everything will be fine.”

As the three teams entered the central intersection of corridors, the six of us turned right and proceeded together until we started peeling off to our different locations. Jaime and I received quick permission from the senior deputy of our section and from the deputy at the first guard station.
“Radio,” Jaime called out into the first dorm we approached to get everyone’s attention. “Good evening, guys. Today is Ash Wednesday, the beginning of a 40-day period called Lent. Lent is a time for Christians to reflect on their own actions and choices in preparation for the Passion, suffering, and crucifixion of Jesus Christ on Good Friday. So to begin this time of prayer and repentance, we invite you to come forward and receive ashes and a blessing”.
We followed that process at the bars of the four dorms of one wing of the jail and then Jaime and I switched roles when we moved to the other side. From my vantage point standing next to him, handing out prayer cards to the men who received their ashes, I noticed how the men of each dorm reacted differently to our invitation. Last year, I was overwhelmed by sensory and emotional overload. Too much was going on around me, and everyone seemed to move at an accelerated speed. I never had a chance to pause and reflect on what I was seeing and doing. This time it was going to be different. With Jaime as the primary minister distributing ashes to the first four dorms in one wing of the 700 dorm cells, I stood by his side and watched. My job of handing out prayer cards gave me plenty of time to observe. Each dorm reacted differently. I noticed how the eyes of the men who were probably Catholics lit up with recognition when they saw the sooty crosses on our foreheads as we approached the bars. In one cell, an inmate standing by the bars immediately alerted the dorm to our presence by calling out, “radio call”, in a loud voice. When Jaime finished making his announcement, this man repeated the message saying:
“Ashes! Any man wishing to receive ashes on Ash Wednesday, line up at the bars.” His words acted as a starter pistol’s shot, and a pack of men raced to form a long line in front of Jaime. In that dorm it seemed as if every man, white, black, Hispanic, Protestant, or Catholic was in line to have ashes rubbed onto their foreheads.
In another dorm, a group of African-American men, who were huddling by the telephone bank against the wall, eyed us suspiciously as we approached the bars. They pointed at our foreheads and seemed to snicker. After our announcement no one moved until I heard an accented Spanish voice yell out from the second floor of the dorm.
“He’s coming from the showers,” an African-American brother standing by the bars explained. “He wants you to wait for him.”
As we waited for the inmate to come down, I watched other men nudging each other on the arm, as if urging each other to step forward. Hesitantly, one shave-headed Hispanic stepped in front of Jaime to receive the mark of ashes. Then one by one the line slowly grew. It was never a noticeably long line, but it was always being replenished with new men stepping in. Then I noticed that the pack of black men by the phones had dispersed and joined the constant line to receive ashes.
“Is this a sacrament like communion?” a tall, skinny young man asked. He had been standing apart, waiting for everyone to pass before stepping forward with his question.
“No,” I replied. “It’s a sacramental. A sacramental is a holy object, a sign, or a devotion that helps us obtain the grace of God. Rubbing ashes on the forehead is a sign of repentance and it reminds us that today is the beginning of Lent, the 40-days of repentance and prayer before Easter.”
“Do you have to be Catholic to get them?” he asked, nodding at our marked foreheads.
“No, you don’t have to be Catholic,” I replied. “You just need to be open to repentance and asking God’s forgiveness for your poor choices and actions.”
“Okay, then,” he decided, stepping in front of Jaime. “Put one on me.”

All the other dorms were variations of these responses. Men were more eager in some than in others, and the lines were long or constant. In one dorm I was taken by surprise when one man gestured at me to approach him by the bars.
“Can I make a prayer request?” the young man whispered, looking quickly from side to side, as if afraid of being overheard.
“Sure,” I replied, waiting for him to give me a name or intention.
“I’d like you to pray for my baby brother,” he continued in a hushed voice. “He’s never been in jail before and he’s got a court date tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I said, thinking that I would pass this information on to Gavin for the proper action. “What’s his name?” I asked, taking out my notebook to write it down.
“His name is Hector,” the man said, closing his eyes and bowing his head in front of me.
He wants me to pray with him right now! I realized. I wasn’t trained for this, I thought in a panic. Suddenly I recalled that a similar situation had occurred last year when we distributed ashes, only I had blocked out the memory. I didn’t know what to say, but I knew I had to do something. To mask the hesitation of my confusion and indecision, I instinctively extended my right hand through the bars and placed it on his bowed head.
“Dear Lord,” I began, closing my eyes as well. “Bless this man who loves his brother, Hector, and worries about him. Fill his mind and spirit with your love and bring him peace tonight and tomorrow. Watch over his family and loved ones, especially his brother Hector who goes to court tomorrow. Be with Hector during his hearing and give him faith and courage to ask for your help and compassion. Give him peace and the faith to accept your will. We ask this through Jesus Christ your son, Amen.”
When I opened my eyes, I saw that three more men had gathered around us.
“Can I have a prayer, too? One man asked.
“Me too,” said another.
With a sigh of resignation, I said, “of course,” and reached out my hand.

As Jaime and I walked to the next first floor wing, he handed me the small plastic container holding the ashes, and began cleaned his hand and thumb of soot.
“Why don’t you do these cellblocks and the next group upstairs, then you can clean your hand while I finish the last group of dorms?”
“That sounds like a great, practical idea,” I said, relieved that I would be distributing ashes only once in the process.
With this new task, my attention shifted from observing the dorm as a whole, and the group behaviors of the men, to the individual faces that came before me. I would look into their eyes saying, “Repent and believe in the Gospel,” as I rubbed the mark of a cross on their foreheads with my thumb. With each successive man, the words I repeated and the cross I shaped became clearer and stronger. I imagined that my words and actions were actually teaching them and encouraging them at the same time. I didn’t know what their motives were in coming forward – what churches or religions they belonged to, or what understanding they had of Ash Wednesday or Lent. All I knew was that they had decided to act, receive the ashes, and hear my words. Did they understand the words and the sign in the same way as I? We usually interacted with these men in small group settings. Those sessions allowed the men to express themselves and share what was on their minds. But here I was looking into face after face of silent men, never knowing what was in their thoughts or in their hearts.
“Repent and believe in the Gospel,” was all I said, repeating those words while making the sign of the cross on countless foreheads, until it became a single act without thought. Strangely, every now and then, my call varied just a little with some people I blessed. Although I started each invocation with the word “Repent,” the next words occasionally changed. Sometimes I’d say, “receive the Gospel”, or “follow the Gospel”, or “accept the Gospel”, or “believe the Gospel”. I never knew which synonym would pop out of my mouth, or why it happened. By the time I finished my eight dorms, and passed the container of ashes to Jaime, I was spent. We had run out of prayer cards by then, so all I did was stand next to Jaime after he rubbed the sign of the cross with ashes, and said, “God bless you”, to each man who received them. When the last dorm was done, we headed back to the Chaplain’s Office for our debriefing.

Last year, the day after this service, I couldn’t remember anything we said during the debriefing. This year I intended to heed every word spoken by the men and women in our circle. Gavin started us out by setting the tone of the session. He said that this Ash Wednesday presented him with two challenges: forgiveness and change. He told of how the priest at this morning’s homily had stressed that Ash Wednesday was not only a call to repent our sins, but also a reminder for us to forgive those who have wronged us.
“The Our Father states it so clearly,” Gavin said. “Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us”.
This year, he explained, he wasn’t going to concentrate on giving things up for Lent, but rather on working at forgiving and praying for the people who thwarted him and made his life difficult at home and in jail. This resolution was also a push for letting go and letting God do his part in the management of this ministry. While working with a brand new chaplain at the women’s jail, he had come to realize how blessed he was to have a stable and structured program with so many experienced and committed volunteers working with him.
“Today and tonight,” he said, “we had more than enough chaplains to give ashes to every man who wanted them in this jail. You men and women do a great job every time you come here. I have to remember that all I need to do is get out of your way and let you do your work. So today I purposely chose not to give ashes to the inmates. Instead I gave them to you, and you gave ashes to them. This is an attitude and a practice I need to continue.”

Justin had a very different experience. He and Diane had gone to the solitary confinement section of the jail, where inmates were kept isolated from the general population and in separate cells.
“Today was very strange,” he began. “I don’t know what caused it, but I’ve never run into such open hostility from a guard. We checked in with the deputy at the front desk to ask permission to give ashes to the men, but he just sat there for a long time without moving. Finally he motioned us to go ahead, and then called out to the other deputy down the hall:
“The guys’ are here with that Catholic shit”.
“What did he say?” Gavin asked unbelievingly.
“He said, ‘the guys’ are here with that Catholic shit,’ Justin repeated. “He made me so mad, I didn’t know what to do.”
“I could tell Justin was really upset,” Diane added in hushed tones. “He stopped walking when the guard said that, and he just stood in the middle of the hallway without moving.”
“I was shaking, I was so angry,” Justin continued. “I wanted to turn around and confront that guard, but I was afraid of what would come out of my mouth. If I said some of the things I was thinking, I was afraid he would throw us out of that section and stop us from distributing ashes. I had to close my eyes and pray, asking God to help me. Once I did that I started breathing again. I hadn’t realized that I was holding in my anger by not breathing. Gavin, I see now what you meant by forgiving others. I couldn’t let go of my anger until I forgave the guard for what he said. Once I did that I was at peace with myself and able to get past what the guard said. God must have heard my prayer,” Justin continued. “I don’t know if the other guard heard the insult or not, but his attitude was completely different. He gave us access to all the men, and even let some of them come out of their cells in pairs to receive the ashes.”
“Yeah,” Diane added. “That guard was really helpful.”

“Maria and Isaac,” Gavin began, “you worked as a team tonight. How did it go?”
“It was incredible,” Maria said. “I don’t know how else to describe it. So many men came forward, that I lost track of time.”
“Didn’t you distribute ashes last year?” I asked, thinking that Maria sounded as if this was her first exposure to this Ash Wednesday service. I was sure we had both done it last year.
“Why, I’m not sure,” Maria replied in a puzzled tone. “But I’d certainly remember if I had, wouldn’t I?”
“Maria,” Sam interjected from across the room, “you were with me last year when we distributed ashes.”
“How odd that I can’t remember,” Maria mused aloud to herself.
“I never gave ashes before,” Isaac said, standing next to Maria, “so I have no means of comparison. But tonight was a special night and a powerful experience.”
“You know,” Rick, a long time Assistant Chaplain who arrived later in the evening to help out, said. “I’ve given ashes to the men in jail for many years now, and each time is different. Sometimes the words I’m repeating become a mantra of sorts that transports the man I’m marking and me to another place. Everything around us, the steel bars, the cement walls and floors, and the guard stations all seem to melt away, and it’s just the inmate and me in the presence of God.”
“Sam,” Gavin said, ending the silence that had engulfed the room after Rick’s observations. “You stayed in the office tonight, but what would you like say about this evening?’
“Well,” Sam began, “I was struck by what you said tonight about Lent and forgiveness. It got me thinking that it’s easier for me to forgive strangers and friends than close family members. I can forget the stupid actions of strangers, like Justin’s guard, but I find it hard to forgive my own relatives. I suppose that’s something I should work on for Lent.”
“Yeah,” agreed Diane. “I think we confuse forgetting and forgiving. When we’re hurt or disappointed by someone, we like to believe that we can just drop the anger and move on. But we don’t really forget, nor do we stop nursing our hurt feelings and resentments, unless we forgive them. I know that was the case with my sister and I when our mother died after a long illness. It wasn’t until I forgave her and prayed for her that all the built up anger and resentments over what she didn’t do while our mother was sick finally fell away. I couldn’t find real peace until I forgave her.”
“Jaime, my Argentine friend,” Gavin said, after Diane finished speaking. “What are your thoughts tonight?”
“Giving ashes always affects me differently,” the slender man standing in the doorway said. “Tonight, for some reason, I was flooded with memories of my grandmother Josefa. She was always strict about the observance of Cuaresma, Lent. She would take us to church to receive ashes on Ash Wednesday, insist that we give up candy and sodas, and abstain from meat on Fridays during Lent. She went to all the Holy Week services, and then she would host a massive Easter Sunday dinner for the whole family. It was wonderful. I miss her and the way she observed Lent and Easter.”

I was the last to speak, and I was unprepared. Usually at these debriefings, I start mentally composing something to say as soon as Gavin begins the session. But tonight I actually listened to what the other volunteers said about the ritual we had performed. When he called my name, I hesitated for a second and considered passing. Instead I stumbled out some impromptu reflections that sounded something like this:
“I suppose my experience was similar to everyone else. Giving ashes was an incredible experience – one I’ll never forget. But strangely, just like Maria, I couldn’t remember many of the details from last year, so my intention tonight was to pay more attention and remember. The words I spoke seemed to take on a life of there own, and they lifted me and the man I was marking out of the jail cell and into a holy place. I saw hundreds of faces, said the words to hundreds of men, and marked hundreds of foreheads, but I can’t recall any one person in particular. At one point it occurred to me that I would never know what was on their minds, or what they expected or needed from this ritual. I had to trust the words I recited and the sign I made on their foreheads, and let God’s grace do its work. But what Gavin said tonight about repentance and forgiveness got me thinking about what we do every time we come here. The program we present every weeks assures the inmates that God already loves and forgives them, but they are the ones who need to change the way they think and make better choices. The pamphlets explain that this difficult road requires us to assume responsibility for our bad choices and ask forgiveness of the people we hurt. Then in our group discussions we try pointing out that they also have to forgive themselves for these actions and their consequences. I think we were enacting those same principles tonight, when we told the men to ‘Repent and believe the Gospel’. I think those five words reflect our mission here perfectly.”

Travelin’ light, is the only way to fly
Travelin’ light, just you and I
One-way ticket to ecstasy
Way on down, follow me.
Travelin’ light, we can go beyond

Travelin’ light, we can catch the wind
Travelin’ light, let your mind pretend
We can go to paradise
Maybe once, maybe twice
Travelin’ light, is the only way to fly.
(Travelin’ Light: J.J. Cale – 1976)

Kathleen Mavourneen always likes to say that she and I travel well together. People who’ve known me for a long time, might consider that a strange thing to say, since I don’t really like traveling. By that I mean that I despise cruises, and I can rarely justify the expense of journeying to far off places in the world. Other people mistakenly assume that since I’ve retired from education, with a lot of free time on my hands, I must also be doing a lot of traveling. I don’t. I generally find traveling, and especially flying, to be a nuisance, troublesome, and expensive. Oh, don’t get me wrong. I’ll go to new cities and even a foreign country or two for a good reason – but those reasons needs to be personally compelling. Weddings, graduations, or anniversaries of family members or good friends are valid reasons to travel, as are funerals. I’ve traveled to see a bishop commissioned, and the opening of college-level, and Broadway-bound musical shows. Those reasons have taken Kathy and me to Washington D.C., Chicago, San Francisco, Savannah, Charleston, and New York – to name a few places. It was while visiting these locales over the course of our 36-year marriage that Kathy reached the conclusion that “we travel well together”. I’ve always agreed with the sentiment, but the words took on new meaning as I considered what to write about for Valentine’s Day, 2012. Suddenly the phrase seemed a fitting metaphor for our life together.

I discovered very early in my courtship of Kathy that she loved to travel – especially by car. When I first met her in 1973 she was driving all over the city (and state) in a bright orange Volkswagen Beetle. That was the last year she lived at home, just before moving into a Van Nuys apartment with her roommate Doris, a friend from college. She would drive from Sherman Oaks to graduate classes at Mount St. Mary’s College in Brentwood, then to Louis Pasteur Junior and Hamilton High School in West Los Angeles to do practice teaching, and then drop-in at the apartment convent of the Sisters of St. Joseph of Carondelet to visit Sisters Carol and Marilyn. However, it was only when I started dating Kathleen that I discovered how really important people, and traveling to see them, were to her. I found this out on the occasions I’d call to ask her out for a Friday night date, and then questioned her about what else she was doing that weekend. Kathy always volunteered too much information, but in those early days of our love affair I depended upon that naïve proclivity to spend more time with her. Innocently, she would tell me who she was visiting in different parts of the city that weekend, and where she was driving.
“I’d love to go along with you, if you’d like company?” I’d declare and implore in the same sentence. Thank God, more often than not, Kathy replied, “That’d be great!”
In that way I got to spend wonderful hours in close proximity to Kathy as we drove to see Jill and her parents in San Pedro, Nora and her parents in Los Feliz, or Frosty and her parents in Newport.

Another ploy I used to see more of Kathy on weekends would be to call and invite her for a morning or afternoon date someplace in the city, and then ask her what else she wanted to do that day. Kathy always came up with a place or person she wanted to see and visit. Sometimes she would play the “let’s drop-in and visit” game – which she still reprises today. No matter where we were in the city, I could always count on Kathy knowing a friend or relative who lived nearby.
“Jerry and Linda live near Echo Park, don’t they?” She’d ask as we drove along the 101 Freeway. “Let’s drop-in and say hello.” Or while driving through Inglewood, she might announce, “Sister Carol’s sister, Judy lives nearby, let’s drop-in and say hello.”
I’d always say, “sure”, and went along for the ride. I wasn’t lying or pretending. I truly enjoyed meeting Kathy’s friends and acquaintances because it let me discover more about this girl I was in love with, and also revealed more of myself to her and her friends. I think these excursions around the city were the beginning of our “traveling well”. The process was mutually enjoyable for both of us, and mutually revealing to each of us.

I suppose our first real trips together were our honeymoon to Carmel, and our one-year wedding anniversary to San Francisco. Those were the trips we spent exclusively together and they were fabulous. In many ways they were simply extensions of our dating conversations and our driving dates around Los Angeles. We would decide on the tours and activities of the day as we went along. Those trips were our first attempts at improvisational travel and spontaneous sightseeing. I loved constructing a day in a new city with Kathy. We’d usually start with a brainstorming session the night before, or during breakfast, spouting out the different places and things we’d like to see or do – including the activities we’d like doing alone. I don’t remember when the inclusion of those solitary breaks first occurred, because it seemed like they were always mentioned. They were our private times to sit and read, times to do crossword puzzles, or times to walk alone, thinking, while gazing out at the beach or scenery. I think our ability to be good traveling companions, as well as lovers, took root in those first two years of marriage and travel. I have passionate and wistful memories of both places.

On our honeymoon, we stayed in a luxurious cabin that was part of the Quail Lodge complex in Carmel Valley. The wooden ceiling soared upward, and a patio glass doorway overlooked the lush fairways and gardens of the golf club. There we lounged around in monogrammed bathrobes discussing where to go, what to see, and what to do in all the nearby areas. We never planned or predicted where our united lives would lead, but simply trusted in our new partnership. We took languid walks, hand-in-hand through Old Carmel, peering through windows and shopping in the cottage-like stores and boutiques that lined the cypress-shaded streets. It was while strolling on the white beaches of Carmel by the Sea that I confessed to Kathy that the Quail Lodge had not been my first choice for our honeymoon residence. I’d wanted to reserve a room at the famous Del Monte Lodge in Pebble Beach, but found the cost too prohibitive. Kathy smiled at my desire to impress her with such a luxurious hotel, and countered that we didn’t need to register to enjoy the accommodations and view. She proposed that during our 17-mile drive through Pacific Grove, we stop at the Del Monte Lodge for drinks or lunch. And that’s what we did. Lounging in elegant white deck chairs we surveyed the marvelous vista of the golf course and the Pacific Ocean, imagining that we were part of the Bing Crosby Clambake waiting to hear of the tournament’s results. The following year in San Francisco we stayed at the St. Frances Hotel in Union Square. There again we did a lot of walking, visiting Fisherman’s Wharf, exploring Chinatown, and wandering through the North Beach area. San Francisco would always remain my number one idea for a December birthday gift for Kathy. However, as the years progressed, and Toñito and Prisa joined the family, we spent more time holding our children’s hands than each other’s. But Kathy and I always made time every year for some kind of a weekend getaway – a weekend to Santa Barbara, San Diego, or San Luis Obispo, or just an overnight stay in Hollywood or downtown L.A. There we’d practice our improvisational skills all over again and explore the local cities as if they were exotic ports-of-call.

I think we first really took note of our spontaneous traveling style during our trip to Chicago in 2003. Toñito and Prisa had graduated from college by then and were pursuing independent careers. Kathy and I were just coming to grips with a life without children at home. She had received word that her nephew Jeff was performing in the Broadway-bound production of Stephen Sondheim’s Bounce at the Goodman Theatre. Although the musical would never reach the Broadway stage, the multitude of benefits such a trip offered were simply too good to pass up. We could explore the many sights of Chicago, see Jeff in a brand new Sondheim musical, and visit his wife Lynne and their two girls, Grace and Constance, at Northwestern University. I think Kathy first coined the phrase that we traveled well together during that trip. We stayed at the Chicago Renaissance Hotel in The Loop because it was close to the Goodman and all the great tourist locations. While only in the city for three nights we packed in an incredible amount of serendipitous sightseeing and travel. Starting on the afternoon we arrived, we walked along the riverfront’s Wacker Drive to Lake Shore Drive, and happened upon Grant Park just as it was hosting the Taste of Chicago festival. It seemed everywhere we turned there was something new and wonderful to see and visit, and since Prisa accompanied us on this trip, her company allowed more flexibility of movement. Together we all took the Navy Pier boat ride to see the Chicago skyline from the darkness and serenity of Lake Michigan. One day Prisa and I paired off to photograph Buddy Guy’s Legends while Kathy spent time alone, and on another day, she and Prisa climbed to the Sear’s Tower, while I wandered The Loop alone. We simply ran out of time to do everything we wanted.

However, the one trip that really set the benchmark for traveling well together was New York City. I’ve documented that serendipitous 2009 trip in this blog (see NYC 1: A Hellva Town and NYC 2: Start Spreading the News), and it still remains the most magical trip we’ve taken together. Everything just fell into place in Manhattan, and everything we did was perfect.

As I conclude this Valentine essay, I should confess that I started it filled with trepidation. A Valentine’s Day card is supposed to be about LOVE, and I’ve spent this whole time writing about travel and improvisation. My four previous blogging efforts (see tag: Valentine) have concentrated on that one word, love. Those essays focused on the early years of our relationship when we were so passionately and ardently in love that it almost hurt to experience it. But children changed that. The love that was so exclusively reserved for each other was slowly spread to include one, then two more people. In some ways those middle years made our life comfortable and predictable. For 10 years Kathy was a stay-at-home mom, volunteering at the children’s school and carting the kids to the homes of friends, or to practices of soccer, swimming, and children’s theatre. I pursued a career in education and administration, making time to share and participate in all the children’s activities and performances. Later, Kathy returned to teaching, eventually becoming principal of the same school. Over time, the white heat of passion that consumed those first three years of marriage settled into the constant flame and warmth of family life. It was as though the amorous desires that erupted when we dated and honeymooned, had settled into a glowing and comfortable campfire that still shot off spontaneous sparks as we journeyed through life. We experienced those flashes on all our trips – especially in the moments we adlibbed. Improvisation has always been a hallmark of our relationship and our love for each other. We practiced it when we dated, when we traveled, and throughout our marriage. Yet, I decided to call this essay Traveling Light. I chose the title after recording and listening to a song from one of my brother-in-law Greg’s vinyl albums, called Troubadour by J.J. Cale. The lyrics seemed to fit what is happening to us. With Toñito and Prisa leading separate lives and our own career goals met, Kathy and I are experiencing some adjustments in our style of living and traveling. If this life is a journey, then we are surely traveling light into the days that follow, because there are only the two of us on that road again.

On this Valentine’s Day of 2012, I just want to say, “I love you Kathleen Mavourneen, as much today as on the first day I loved you.”

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The Dedalus Log

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