I have a song to sing, O
(Sing me your song, O)
It is sung to the moon by a love-lorn loon
Who fled from the mocking throng-o

It’s the song of a merry man moping mum
Whose soul was sad, and his glance was glum
Who sipped no sup and who craved no crumb
As he sighed for the love of a lady.

Hey-di, hey-di, misery me, lack-a-day-di
He sipped no sup and he craved no crumb
As he sighed for the love of a lady.
(I Have a Song to Sing O: Peter, Paul, and Mary)

 I have noticed an interesting phenomenon in the telling of old family memories – the more the stories are told, the less factual they become, and the more mythical they grow in the telling. This is what happens to memoir. We cobble together recalled scenes and events from the past, and then string them together into a seemingly coherent narrative. These stories make sense to the teller – but they may not be the way other people remember them. The following is one of those stories. It involves my wife Kathleen, her brother Greg Greaney, and her friend Susan (Frosty) Von Tobel, and it occurred in the Winter of 1975.





Of the many guests to our apartment in Santa Monica during those 2 ½ years, the two most frequent were Frosty, a college friend of Kathy’s, and her younger brother, Greg. Frosty had just moved into a nearby apartment on San Vicente Blvd., and Greg was attending UCLA in Westwood. Of all of Kathy’s numerous girlfriends – from her neighborhood, grade school, high school, and college – Frosty was probably her closest at the time we first met in 1973. They met at Mount Saint Mary’s College in 1968 and evolved into best friends after graduation. Frosty was a regular presence at many Greaney family events and Mount parties. So, as I was dating Kathy, I saw a lot of Frosty and grew to accept her as a friend. Greg, on the other hand, I came to know best on my own.




During my dating years with Kathy, I paid more attention to her 7 sisters than to her two brothers, Mike and Greg. The sisters were both curious and wary of me – and since I felt that I needed their good opinion to truly win Kathy’s affection, I worked harder to befriend them. The brothers, on the other hand, remained mildly indifferent to me, and I to them. However, that relationship changed with Greg at UCLA. In the Fall of 1973, Greg enrolled at UCLA as a Freshman, and I returned there as a graduate student under the G.I. Bill. Now with an enrollment of over 3,000 students on a campus of 419 acres, the chances of meeting someone you know is incredibly small (In my undergraduate years at UCLA, I would only run into former high school classmates about once a year). However, through a strange confluence of factors, it seemed I was running into Greg on campus about once a week. Both of us were college commuters driving cars to school. Both of us arrived early to school because Greg had 8:00 am classes, and I had to ensure a free street parking space along Veteran Avenue. Therefore, we both had to catch the early UCLA shuttle bus at the Veteran & Kinross Student Parking Lot. And so it was, on an overcast morning in September, that I spotted someone that looked like Kathy’s brother on the shuttle bus. I’d met him on previous occasions – at Kathy’s family home in Sherman Oaks, at his high school graduation and party, and I’d embarrassed myself at a family beach house party at Capistrano Beach that featured Mickey’s Big Mouth malt liquor. While I was trying to convince myself that the student I spotted on the bus was not Greg, he turned, saw me, and called out: “Hey Tony, what are you doing here?” That was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.





At first, we simply met and talked while waiting for or riding the shuttle, either in the morning in the parking lot, or on afternoons, on our way home, in front of Ackerman Student Union. Then one afternoon, Greg suggested that we disembark early to browse the book, music, and record stores that abounded in Westwood Village at that time. It was there we discovered our mutual love of 60’s folk and rock, and 70’s country-rock music. I was astounded at the breadth of his musical taste and interests. He would wander through all the sections of the music store looking for bargains: country, jazz, blues, and rock. He was an eclectic connoisseur of music. But more important, I came to appreciate his laughter and sense of humor. What I had at first taken as high school mockery and juvenile satire, clarified itself into a more refined sense of the absurd. Even at his most critical and argumentative, Greg never seemed to take himself too seriously, and he made as much fun of himself as he did about other people and things. We found commonalities about music, television, movies, sports (remember we attended UCLA during its years of NCAA basketball dominance), and cultural trivia. His knowledge of TV and movie trivia was confirmed when, on another occasion, he spotted me riding my Honda 50 to campus, while wearing a night watch cap, and labeled it my “Then Came Bronson” look. Two years later, after Kathy and I married, Greg became a frequent drop-in guest at our apartment – either on weekdays after his UCLA classes, or on weekends.


One Saturday in December of 1975, Greg dropped by the apartment and began chiding us on the absence of a stereo record player as he perused our combined LP collection stacked in the extra bedroom (along with our books). Although we had purchased a TV set and a couch for the apartment, we hadn’t gotten around to a stereo. So, taking advantage of Greg’s musical and technical expertise, we took him shopping with us to purchase one – on the condition that he would set it up for us. We visited a music store in Santa Monica where Greg chose our first stereo player, and then we watched him set it up in our apartment. We kept that stereo for many years after, and Greg always made a point of bringing his recommended record albums as gifts for birthdays and Christmas. I especially recall two of them that became my favorites: Aja by Steely Dan, and The Best of Earl Klug.


At some point during that day, Kathy asked Greg if he would like to join us at a Christmas party Frosty was hosting for her Mount St. Mary’s College co-workers and nuns of the Congregation of St. Joseph (CSJ). Reluctant at first to attend a party with a lot of nuns, we cajoled him to accept and cleared his attendance with Frosty. To pass the time before the party we then decided to play a new Jeopardy board game we had purchased, while warming up with a few “brewskeys”. Each of us considered ourselves masters of this popular television game, so the matches were highly competitive. One would act as the host and judge (ala Alex Trebek) and read the categories and answers to the two contestants (e.g., “He cared for a blue ox”). The contestants would “click-in” with hand clickers, and the swiftest would respond with the appropriate question (Who was Paul Bunyan?). Then we would alternate roles: the winner of the match would then play the host, and the loser would assume the role of reader and judge. We played one complete round with enough time left for one more match between Greg and me. Only this time, Greg suggested that the loser had to pay a penalty of some sort.


Discussion over the criteria of this penalty took as much time as the game itself – with a lot of squabbling, laughter, and crazy ideas. We finally decided that the penalty would be to sing a song of the loser’s choice that had to occur during Frosty’s Christmas party, and it was to remain a secret until the moment it was sung. Also, the song could not be introduced. It had to happen spontaneously; the way songs occur in Broadway musicals. I suspected this was more of a seductive challenge for Greg because it was a penalty he wouldn’t mind paying. I, on the other hand, was definitely not eager to lose.

The match proved a very tight one, with the winner being decided by the Final Jeopardy question. I wish I could remember what it was – but the upshot was that Greg responded with the correct question, and I lost the game and the bet. The penalty was mine to pay. However, I did have a plan. All the discussion over criteria was aimed at making the penalty palatable and fun. While Greg had more advantages because he memorized popular songs and could sing them, I was not altogether unprepared. I had gone through a stage of watching movie versions of popular Broadway musicals, and listening to their recordings on my mother’s vinyl LP’s: Oklahoma, Carousel, The King and I, West Side Story, The Music Man, and South Pacific. I loved the musicals, and I loved the songs, but I never thought of memorizing them until I found a library book containing the music and lyrics of songs by Rodgers and Hammerstein when I was in high school. On a whim I checked out the book and memorized some of them. I had a particular one in mind as we played our final game of Jeopardy.


I was the center of attention as the three of us walked to Frosty’s apartment on San Vicente Blvd. Greg and Kathy peppered me with questions: What song did I pick? When would I sing it? How would I introduce it? I ignored the pressuring questions and told them they’d have to wait and see. I wasn’t sure myself, so I tried putting it out of my mind on our arrival. As to Greg’s early apprehensions of attending a party with so many single women and nuns present, they were immediately assuaged. He was quite the hit of the party, chatting up the nuns and telling them stories of when Kathy was a teenager. However, he always made a point, during his interactions with guests, of catching my attention with a look. Raising his eyebrows, he would give me a questioning and challenging look as if to say: “Are you going to do it? Don’t chicken out!”

And so, in the middle of a conversation with one of Kathy’s former teachers, I said in a loud voice: “You know sister, this party reminds of the first time I met Kathy”, and I started singing:

Some enchanted evening.
You may see a stranger.
You may see a stranger,
Across a crowded room.
And somehow you know,
You know even then,
That somehow, you’ll see her again,
and again.

Some enchanted evening
Someone may be laughing,
You may hear her laughing,
Across a crowded room.
And night after night,
As strange as it seems,
The sound of her laughter
Will sing in your dreams.

Who can explain it?
Who can tell you why?
Fools give you reasons,
Wise men never try.

Once you have found her,
Never let her go.
Once you have found her,
Never let her go!

I don’t remember much after that. All the guests were quite stunned by the unexpected song, and then they clapped. Greg patted me on the back and congratulated me for not welching on a bet. The performance was the surprise of the party and Kathy, Greg, and I laughed about it all the way back to our apartment when it was over.

Bicycle, bicycle, bicycle
I want to ride my bicycle, bicycle, bicycle.
I want to ride me bicycle,
I want to ride my bike.
I want to ride my bicycle,
I want to ride it where I like.
(Bicycle Race: Freddie Mercury – 1978)

Kathy and I were watching Episode 6, Season 3 of Ted Lasso last week, when we noted a scene that made us both laugh. It was when the team had a match in Amsterdam and Coach Roy Kent (Brett Goldstein) embarrassedly admitted to player Jamie Tartt (Phil Dunster) that he never learned to ride a bicycle. What made it especially funny for me was the fact that I too learned somewhat late in life and in another country. Everyone has a bicycle story to tell of how and when they learned to ride a bike. After I shared mine with Kathy, she suggested that I write about it.

I didn’t learn how to ride a bicycle until after the 5^th grade, when I was 11 years old. Why the delay? Well, the answer is quite simple really: location, location, location. For the first 12 years of my life, my three siblings and I lived on hills – some of them very steep. Our first home was on Amethyst Street in the Rose Hill section of Los Angeles, near Lincoln Heights. The following year we moved to a house on Duane Street in the Silver Lake area – also on a hill. Three years later we moved to Cove Avenue, also in the Silver Lake area. A topographical map of the city of Los Angeles shows that these three locations are covered with hills. Silver Lake has the distinction of having the steepest one in the city, Fargo Street (which was near Cove and Duane Street). When my siblings and I pleaded for bikes, our father simply explained that bicycles were not practical vehicles for us because we had nowhere to ride them. Bike racks or carriers were not readily available in the 1950’s, so unless you owned a truck, you were out of luck. So, we walked. We walked to school. We walked to the store. We even walked the 2 miles from Cove Avenue to Echo Park.






During those hilly years, my siblings and I compensated for this deprivation with roller skates. We received them one Christmas and learned to skate on Saturdays by going to the park or visiting our Grandparents, who lived on a flat and level street in Lincoln Heights. Although bicycles were never allowed on our Christmas lists, my parents did not turn down a hand-me-down bike from my cousin Paul. It was a kiddie bike which we stored away for some future date. All that miraculously changed in 1958, when my mom took my siblings and I to Mexico City for our summer vacation.






 Summer vacations in Mexico were always a treat. We stayed in my grandmother’s large apartment house where she lived with her three adult single children – my aunt Totis, and my uncles Pepe and Lalo. These three young adults kept us entertained and occupied during our month-long visit. It was when planning a Saturday excursion to Chapultepec Park that Totis learned that none of us could ride a bike. “Cómo es posible!” “How is it possible”, she exclaimed in an indignant tone. She could not believe that at our ages we had not been taught, and she scolded our mother for negligence. Her remedy was to take us to Chapultepec Park, rent bicycles (and a tricycle for Gracie), and with our mother’s assistance, teach us to rides two-wheel bikes. We had been to Chapultepec on numerous occasions. It is the scenic Central Park of Mexico City, and a wondrous place to visit. We had been there many times: going to the zoo, exploring Maximilian’s Castle, and rowing rented boats on the lake. However, in all the times before, we never considered bicycles.


So, on a weekday that she took off from work, Totis guided us all to Chapultepec where we rented three bicycles and got down to work. With my mom and Totis taking one of us on our bikes, they began running along with us as we balanced and pedaled the bikes. Over and over, they did this, until one by one, they would release their hold on our bicycle seats and let us pedal and balance on our own. By the end of our rented hour, we were riding bicycles on our own, and my mom and aunt were exhausted. It was an amazing afternoon in the park. I will always be thankful for my aunt Totis and her dogged efforts and persistence in teaching us a skill we would use and depend on all our young lives.


That summer was also one in which my dad started a new job in a photography studio in Culver City, and we moved into our fourth and final home in Venice, California. When we drove to see the new house on Yale Avenue, the first thing my siblings and I noticed was that the street, and all the surrounding area, was flat! The only hill was a sloping upgrade on Lincoln Boulevard heading towards Westchester that was 2 miles away. Thus began our incessant requests for bicycles, which grew in volume as Christmas approached. Although my mom and dad remained noncommittal on the subject, they did take us window shopping to see the types of bicycles we might like. When we lived in Los Angeles we would window shop during Christmas at the old multi-floor Sears Department Store in Boyle Heights, now that we were living in Venice, we went to the modernistic Sears on Third Street in Santa Monica. It was there that we saw the bikes that we wished for. All we could do then was pray.





Kathy calls it “Bicycle Christmas”. That special Christmas when children awaken on Christmas morning to discover their first bicycle under the Christmas tree. Well, we four children had our Bicycle Christmas in December of 1959. There they were, four brand new J.C. Higgins bicycles (red and white for the boys, and blue and white for the girls) with headlights and rear luggage carriers. Those vehicles symbolized a rite of passage for us that year.  We were now liberated. Where once we were limited always to walking, we could now explore our new neighborhood in Venice on bikes, and we could go farther and longer on these excursions. I could ride my bike to school, to the library, and to Little League and Pop Warner football practice and games. Looking back on it now, it was worth the wait.

When you’re down and troubled,
And you need some loving care.
And nothing, nothing is going right.
Close your eyes and think of me,
And soon I will be there.
To brighten up even your darkest night.

You just call out my name,
And you know, wherever I am,
I’ll come running,
To see you again.
Winter, spring, summer, or fall,
All you have to do is call,
And I’ll be there.
You’ve got a friend.
(You’ve Got a Friend: Carole King – 1971)

 Belated news of a loved one’s death has always been an unbalancing experience for me. It’s not shocking, like a sudden, unforeseen, or accidental death tends to be. Rather, these deaths are hard to believe or accept, because they occurred months or a year before – when you still thought that person was alive and well. Such was the case when my wife Kathleen, while perusing the monthly Associates newsletter from the Congregation of Sisters of St. Joseph Carondelet (CSJ), learned of the death of Carol Ann Krommer last December. More than a month had passed since her actual death, and during that time we had sent Carol a Christmas card, and wondered if we would speak to her by phone. All those well-meaning thoughts and intentions were now meaningless. Carol was dead, and we’d never again see her, speak with her, recall experiences we shared, or laugh about days long past. A part of our lives had died with her.

On Saturday, February 18^th, a cold and gloomy morning, Kathy and I drove up to Mission San Buenaventura, in Ventura, to attend Carol’s funeral Mass. Despite our original disequilibrium at the belated news, there was never a doubt that we would both attend. Carol was a personal friend to each of us – since Kathy’s student days at Mount St. Mary’s College in 1968, and my first teaching days at St. Bernard High School in 1972. Yet we both entered the Mission courtyard with a certain amount of apprehension. So many years had passed since we’d had actual contact with Carol, her sisters, or any of her friends, I feared I wouldn’t know anyone at the funeral. It wasn’t until I recognized Carol’s sister Judy (who had taught with me at St. Bernard H.S.) walking slowly up to the pulpit to give the eulogy before the beginning of mass that I relaxed and calmly listened to her tales of growing up with Carol.



I’m bad at processing my feelings at emotional moments. It took a few weeks after the funeral before I felt sufficiently settled to write down my own thoughts and memories of Carol. My ideas centered on three clear images and scenes of Carol: as a caring, talented, and charismatic teacher, and an extraordinary guidance counselor to students and beginning teachers; as a verbal champion for Fairness, Christian Charity, and Justice; and, finally, as a determined, matchmaking friend who would risk giving relational advice.

I was first introduced to Carol by Marilyn Rudy in the faculty lounge of St. Bernard High School in January of 1972. They were both nuns in the Congregation of St. Joseph of Carondelet (CSJ), and Sister Marilyn was my Department Chair. I had been hired to teach U.S. History without any prior teaching experience. I obviously interviewed well enough with the Principal, Father Larry Dunphy, to allay any fears or misgivings he or Marilyn had about my lack of training and experience. I certainly felt confident at the time of the interview – but that feeling was fast eroding as the day to my first interactions with students approached. 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 mentor and advisor. She paired me with another young and talented Social Studies teacher, Jerry Lenhard, to act as a model and guide, and introduced me to Carol. At first, I simply accepted her as Marilyn’s friend. It was only later I realized that Carol was the third member of the triumvirate that Marilyn created to support and sustain me during my first difficult semester of teaching.







Sister Carol (as I knew her then) was the Religion Department Chair and school guidance counselor. She was clearly a close friend of Marilyn. They lived in community with 4 to 6 other CSJ nuns in a converted apartment house across the street from St. Anastasia Church, near the high school. I remember her as tall, with a smiling angular face, and a delightful laugh. More importantly she was a great listener. It became clear, as Marilyn, Jerry, Carol, and I got together at Nutrition and Lunch in the faculty lounge, that Carol’s presence was to provide me with solace and encouragement, while Marilyn and Jerry gave me curricular techniques and strategies. General conversation and laughter were also a large part of those times together, as well as chagrined amusement at some of my well-intentioned instructional gaffes and disasters. However, Carol was never my exclusive counselor. Countless teachers and staff members would seek her out, or join our lunch table, to speak about students, classes, or themselves. She always had a ready ear and a sympathetic heart. Through the efforts of this trio, I survived my first year of teaching.




The following year (1972-73), I was a much more confident and knowledgeable teacher. I enjoyed teaching and interacting with students, and I made new friends among the faculty. My relationships with Carol and Marilyn also developed into a sincere and personal friendship. I could talk to Carol about anything, and I was soon a regular member at the Friday evening TGIF parties that the CSJ’s hosted at their convent. Besides the joking and laughter at these get-togethers, I also learned of the CSJ’s commitment to social justice and charity. Carol and this community of nuns looked beyond a life dedicated to prayer and teaching, and they saw themselves as active participants and implementers of Christ’s teachings in the Gospel. Carol also dared to speak out about the institutional inconsistencies in the decisions and actions of School and Church authorities.

In the early days of 1973, 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 the unwed mother-student 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, morals, 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, as Guidance Counselor, she knew of students who had secretly terminated unwanted pregnancies, and had run for, and been elected to, student body offices.
“What message are we sending as a Catholic school,” she asked, “when we penalize a pregnant student for publicly doing the right thing of giving birth to her child, 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.

In the faculty lounge later that year, I was regaling Carol and Marilyn with stories of living at home with my mom and siblings, and my romantic misadventures in the company of three high school buddies who lived in an apartment near the school. Holding her stomach in laughter, Marilyn gasped that she wanted to meet these bachelor friends, who provided me a haven for continuous juvenile pursuits. As I tried explaining the importance of frivolous recreation, and my cavalier attitude toward dating, Carol suddenly interrupted:
“Tony, there’s a girl we know who I think you should meet”.
“Oh, you mean Kathy”, chimed in Marilyn, cutting short her laughter. “She’s wonderful, and you both have a lot in common.”
The topic immediately sobered me and brought a frown to my face. Working in an environment of nuns, I had become very wary of their matchmaking skills. I didn’t have much confidence in their celibate judgement when it came to predicting romantic chemistry and sexual attraction. I’d seen and met many of their female friends and acquaintances who occasionally visited the school. None of them looked particularly attractive or interesting.
“No thanks, ladies.” I replied gently, not wanting to hurt their feelings.
“It’s not what you think, Tony”, countered Carol. “This girl is different. We’ve known her for a long time, and we really think she’s wonderful”.
“I need you to drop this”, I said firmly and impatiently. “I don’t want to be set-up. I appreciate your interest, but I’m fine – really”.
“We’re not talking about a blind date, Tony”, Marilyn continued. “Kathy is just someone we really like, and we think you would too.”
“Again, thank you ladies, but I’m not interested in meeting anyone. I’m seeing someone right now”. I saw that none of my excuses were having any effect on my determined, religious friends; but when I noticed that Carol was angling for another opportunity to weigh into this debate, I changed tactics.
“Okay, look, I’ll make you a deal. I’ll agree to meet this girl but let me be the one to tell you when. Now is not a good time; but I promise to tell you when I’m ready”.
“You promise?” repeated Carol, warily, looking at Marilyn for support.
“I promise!” I said, raising my right hand as if taking an oath. Reluctantly, Carol and Marilyn took me at my word and accepted the compromise. They dropped the subject and did not raise it again. I was very pleased with myself for having short circuited their designs. I had no intention of ever asking to meet this girl – but I couldn’t forget the promise I made to them.

Two months after this debate with Carol and Marilyn, my relationship with a female teacher at the school ended. The aftermath of this short-lived infatuation lingered far longer than the relationship itself. I entered a dismal, barren period in my life where a meaningful connection with a woman became a ceaseless longing. I had the company of my family at home, friends at school, and three high school buddies, but they were no longer enough. After considerable inner turmoil, I sought out Carol and Marilyn at the lunch table one day and sat next to them.
“Uh, do you remember that conversation we had a while back about a friend you wanted me to meet?” I asked embarrassedly, as the two nuns looked at each other and then me.
“Yes”, they replied in tandem, with secret smiles on their faces.
“Well, I’d like to meet her”, I said. “Just remember, this is not a date. You are just inviting us to dinner along with other people.”
“Okay”, Carol said confidently. “We’ll take care of it”.

The “wonderful” girl Carol and Marilyn wanted me to meet, turned out to be Kathleen Greaney – and they were right. She was nothing I expected. I had visualized a short, mousy-faced graduate student, who would be cautious, demur, quiet, and shy. I assumed all “nun friends” had these qualities (never making the association that I was their friend and yet shared none of them). Kathy was the exact opposite from the “convent girl” I imagined. She had sparkling, hazel eyes, a gorgeous face, and an enchanting, beaming smile. She was tall, with shoulder-length, and sun streaked, dark blonde hair. She glowed with vitality as she exuded humor and laughter. She commanded the dining room and captivated the guests with stories of her family and college experiences. I was totally smitten, and knew I had to see her again. By the end of the evening, I had talked my way into joining the nuns and Kathy on a road trip to Chowchilla, the following day, in support of Cesar Chavez’s farmworker’s grape boycott. At the end of that long and enjoyable day, I took advantage of a moment alone to ask Kathy if I could see her again.
“Sure”, she replied, with a bewitching smile, “that would be great. I’d like that”.
Two years later we were married; with Carol, Marilyn, and the other nuns of their house, as special guests.








Over the years we saw less and less of Carol and Marilyn. They were always invited to large family birthdays and gatherings, but we all pursued different interests, vocations, and moved to different parts of the state. The last time we saw them together, was a visit in 1995 (the date sticks in my mind because it was on the day of O.J. Simpsons’ famous car chase). Yet Carol remained intrinsically tied to us because of our long-lasting friendship and the romantic connection she helped facilitate. I suppose that is how I will remember her. Although I described three memories of Carol, they really coalesce around one central image: Carol was a loving friend – one you could count on for help, solace, guidance, and love. I will miss her and count myself bereft of one more friend of my past.

May your hands always be busy
May your feet always be swift
May you have a strong foundation
When the winds of changes shift

May your heart always be joyful
And may your song always be sung
May you stay forever young
Forever Young, forever young
May you stay forever young.
(Forever Young: Bob Dylan – 1973)

 Last month, I attended the 60^th Wedding Anniversary of my Uncle Kādo (Ricardo) and his lovely bride Joie. It was a joyous and festive family affair that allowed the large Delgado clan to come together to celebrate the partnership and marriage of the eldest of 3 surviving siblings of Jesus and Maria Delgado’s 14 children. What made it uniquely notable was not only the longevity of their loving union, but the opportunity to see, greet, hug, laugh, and chat with so many cousins who we rarely see. It was such a relief not coming together to mourn the passing of one more of our aunts or uncles – rather it was an occasion for me to recall some memories of one of our most exceptional uncles (even though I might get some facts and dates wrong).


My Uncle Kādo was the 10^th of the fourteen children of Jesus and Maria Delgado. As I remember him from the glossy filter of my childhood, he seemed to occupy a variety of personae, or roles in his life: bad boy and seminarian; playboy and sportsman; sailor and pilot; photographer and businessman; and finally, husband, father, and grandfather. I couldn’t imagine a life filled with more twists and turns, laughs and sighs, struggles and victories, tears and surprises, and finally Love. First, you have to laugh at his nicknames: it was originally Kādo (pet name for Ricardo); and then it became King Kādo – like King Richard the Lionheart. Few people would have the arrogance to adopt a royal name, but Kādo did, and he got away with it. My grandmother and my own mother, on the other hand, called him by his full name Ricardo, and then mostly when they were scolding him (which was often in his youth).




I’m sure that my first impressions of Kādo were influenced by my Uncle Charlie, who was the youngest of eight brothers. Charlie thought Kādo was “cool” – just the right mixture of bad boy rebel, smooth playboy, light-hearted scamp, and charismatic leader of a gang of high school buddies and friends. I remember him wearing a faded leather jacket over a white tee shirt and believed the rumor that he once worked as a truck driver like Elvis Presley. It was only many years later that I learned that this supposedly “bad boy” had actually attended a Catholic junior seminary, intending to become a priest, and then transferred to the all-boys Cathedral High School in Los Angeles, where he graduated. Yet, even though he seemed to live in a world of high school buddies, dating, and dances, he always made time for Charlie and me. I remember spending afternoons in the upstairs bedroom he shared with Charlie, reading his comics, and listening to stories of his friends and adventures.




Kādo was a natural and gifted sportsman. Even though I don’t think he played varsity sports in high school, he was an avid player of all the traditional playground and CYO (Catholic Youth Organization) sports, like football, basketball, and softball, and he also dabbled in eccentric ones (kite flying and horseshoes). At one point he and his older brother Henry (Enrique) organized a CYO athletic club called The Die Hards. It was a motley team composed of high school friends, family members, and an occasional “ringer”, who got together as often as they could to compete in a variety of intramural, park league sports. Charlie was my main source of information about this team with the unusual name, and which seemed to lose more games than they won. I remember watching them play touch-football and softball at various times during my childhood days, and longing to be old enough to join them. My Uncle Henry was the president of the club, and although he and Kādo were co-captains, Kādo was the best athlete. I think Kādo told me that… along with his explanation of how they came up with such a crazy team name:



“Listen, J.R.,” he said, calling me by the initials for ‘junior’. “A team name is important because it describes to our opponents, and the rest of the league, how we compete. We’re a collection of brothers, in-laws, cousins, and friends who play with passion and heart because we love the game. We may not be the best athletes or the strongest players, but we are going to give all we have and never give up. We’re like the ancient Aztecs of Mexico, or the revolutionary soldiers of Emiliano Zapata, who didn’t fear death when they fought against superior odds. They were never defeated, even when they lost, because they never gave up and they died hard. You can’t lose when you don’t surrender – even if the other team has more points at the end of the game. That is what our name says about us – we may not always win, but we never lose. Only quitters lose, and we’re the Die Hards – we never give up.”


What I loved most about Kādo was that he was always ready to join Charlie and me in neighborhood pickup games on nearby parking lots, or in the front and backyards of their home on Workman Avenue. He and Charlie introduced me to the games of horseshoes and kite flying. Kado was a master at horseshoes, and he showed me how to pitch them and keep score; but he was an artist at kite flying. I never saw Kādo buy a commercial kite kit. He would build his own, and he made them bigger and better than store-bought ones. His kites were made of light bamboo sticks tied into a cross as tall as I was, covered with coarse tissue paper, and anchored with a streaming tail of cloth strips. It was so big I couldn’t believe it would fly – but it did! Up, up, and up it floated on the updrafts that Kādo found, until the kite hovered overhead, sustaining itself in the sky. Once aloft, he would fasten written messages on flimsy paper that he attached to the string and launched them upward to the receiving kite. These childhood activities came to a temporary halt when Kādo joined the Navy and left home for a few years.


The military is a rite of passage that matures everyone who joins or is drafted. You enter as a youth, and you exit as an adult. Kādo was a different person when he returned home from the Navy. He was still joyous and spirited in his approach to life and sports, but there was a new aura of maturity about him that impressed my father (his oldest brother) and my mother. Kādo had served as a Navy photographer while in the service and was now interested in pursuing it as a profession. At the time my father was managing a commercial photography studio in Culver City, near our new home in Venice. He had faith that this newly matured Kādo could learn and master all the skills and techniques of commercial photography, and he convinced the owner to hire him on trial. I recall many evenings when Kādo would join our family for dinner after work, and then he and my father would return to  the studio to practice the advanced professional skills and techniques that Kādo needed to master. From that time forward, my dad and Kādo remained close as brothers and professionals; and there would come a day, before my dad died, that he admitted to me, with no lack of pride, that Kādo had developed into a much better photographer than he.




Another thing that changed after the Navy, and his job as a professional photographer, was his interest in one particular girl. I always viewed Kādo as a “ladies man” and confirmed bachelor who flirted outrageously and dated many girls – but Joie was the first girl I saw that he brought home to meet his parents, siblings, nephews, and nieces. I thought Joie was stunningly beautiful and charmingly sweet. There was still enough of the “bad boy” in Kādo for me to wonder how he managed to convince this wholesome young woman to marry him – but he did. In 1962, with my brother Arthur and I as altar boys, Kādo and Joie were wed at Sacred Heart Church in Lincoln Heights. It was a fine ceremony (even though Kādo did get a case of the shakes when it came time for him to profess his vows to Joie), followed by a fabulous reception with pollo con mole as the signature serving.  However, marriage did not tame Kādo – in many ways it set him free to pursue further avenues of growth and self-expression. He used his G.I. Bill grant to take flying lessons and received his license to fly single-wing aircraft, and he went into business for himself. I can’t imagine two more terrifying activities. Of all his brothers and sisters, Kādo was the first and only one to begin his own commercial enterprise by establishing an independent color photography studio.





All these memories and images came flooding back to me last month as I watched Kādo and Joie renewing their marriage vows in front of a large gathering of their children, grandchildren, relatives, and friends. So many years had passed since their first meeting, but as they sat there on the stage, holding hands, and repeating their vows, they seemed to glow with happiness, and they looked as young and innocent as they did in that summer of 1962. The young bride had faith in her choice of a husband, and the “playboy” scamp had proven everybody wrong. He had evolved to become a model of what men, husbands, and fathers can become when they take St. Paul’s words in Corinthians 13:4 to heart: Love “always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always preserves… love never fails”. For me, Kādo and Joie will always seem the way they did on their wedding day and they will remain forever young.

Nuh body touch me you nuh righteous
Nuh badda text me in a crisis
I believed all your dreams, adoration
You took my heart and my keys and my patience
You took my heart on my sleeve for decoration
You mistaken my love I bought you for foundation
All that I wanted from you was to give me
Something that you’ve never seen
Something that you’ve never been, mmh
But I wake up and act like nothing’s wrong.
(“Work” by Riahanna – 2016)

Kathy and I went to see the play Slave Play by Jeremy O’Harris at the Mark Taper last month. I must admit I was a little apprehensive about going. I knew little about the play that had run on Broadway in 2019 until it was shut down during the Covid pandemic. The staging in Los Angeles was the resumption of a planned national touring run. Kathy had simply added the play to a list of productions we hoped to see this season as part of our Center Theatre Group membership on the recommendation of the ticketing agent. It would be the first in a series of plays that included The Lehman Trilogy, Hadestown, and Oklahoma.



Kathy and I have been long time aficionados of live theatre – musicals and dramas. One of our first theatre dates was Zoot Suit with Edward Olmos in 1978, and we introduced our children to the musical Cats in 1985, when Toñito was 7 and Prisa 5. While musicals remain our most enjoyable experiences, live dramas standout as the most thought provoking, memorable productions. A post-theatre dinner is mandatory after a live drama to process and analyze the characters, actions, and themes of the play. The Slave Play, merely by its title promised to be particularly startling and provocative – especially in this post-George Floyd murder era with its reactionary responses to the teaching or mentioning of Critical Race Theory, and American racism. So, in preparation I took the precaution of reading Charles McNulty’s positive (but critical) review of the play before watching it with Kathy on February 27^th.

I approached the play on three levels: as a regular theatre goer; as a former U.S. History teacher; and as a first-generation Mexican American citizen living in this post-George Floyd era. In general, The Slave Play is the type of complex drama (like great movies) that really needs to be viewed at least twice to be fully appreciated. One exposure (which I had) left me unsatisfactorily provoked and questioning the characters, their conflicts, and the issues raised about slavery and racism in America. The play is not meant to make anyone feel comfortable or uninvolved. Even before it begins you are startled by its staging. A backdrop of mirrors immediately places you IN the actions taking place on a pre-Civil War plantation. You will not be allowed to be a safe and aloof spectator in this drama. You see yourself reflected onto the stage with the actors. You will be a participant in the play’s unfolding actions and emotions. Additionally, high above the stage, suspended over the actors is the boldly visible and disturbing quotation (which I only later discovered is from Rihanna’s song “Work”, which is played and mentioned in the play):

                        Nuh body touch me you nuh righteous


The play is a 2-hour, 3 act drama, with no intermission. You are jolted into the first act which depicts three antebellum (before the Civil War) vignettes with pairs of interracial couples – a black female field hand and a white overseer; a light-skinned male house slave and white plantation mistress, and a black field overseer and white male indentured servant. Each of their exploitive slave-to-master interactions is uncomfortable to watch because of the sexual undertones that build up and culminate in rapes of different fashions. Yet each of these interactions is about power and its ability to control, dominate, and exploit other human beings.


In the second act we learn that the three interracial couples are willing participants in a novel 5-day interactive session called “Antebellum Sexual Performance Therapy” (ASPT) taking place in a Southern plantation overseen by two university researchers. These three couples suffer from sexual dysfunctions of some kind, and their simulated reenactments are supposed to expose these issues to visibility so they can be identified, analyzed, and processed. The processing was guided by two female, interracial therapists – one black and the other white (whom we later learn is Latina). The treatment, they explain, is designed to help black partners reengage with their white partners from whom they no longer receive sexual stimulation or pleasure. This session is the heart of the play. The part where the characters finally reveal the internal tensions, turmoil, and conflicts that arose during their relationships. There is no clear-cut resolution during this session, which ends in confusion, arguments, and more conflict between couples. We are left with a myriad of disquieting and insightful revelations about the hidden and destructive dynamics of prejudice, racism, and dominance between individuals of different colors and race.

The third act zooms in on the bedroom scene of the original interracial couple in which the black woman admits the failure of the therapy to alleviate her “numbness”, and her feelings of revulsion for her white partner, whom she sees as harboring the “virus” of white supremacy in the relationship. The man’s angry response to this accusation is to demonstrate physically his desire for, and dominance of, this woman by raping her – as if this was some sort of “make-up” sex after an argument.

Slavery, rape, and racial miscegenation (race mixing) are critical motifs in this play and central to its views on racism in America. The introduction of a so-called “Antebellum Sexual Performance Therapy” reminded me of the famous (or infamous) Blue eyes – Brown eyes Simulation conducted by Jane Elliott, an Iowa teacher in 1968, with her third-grade students. Elliot gave the brown-eyed children praise and special privileges in school. They sat in front, went to lunch first, and drank from the water fountain. The blue-eyed children, on the other hand, were disparaged, sat in the back, went last to lunch, and drank from paper cups. The change in the students’ behavior and attitudes was instant: children with brown eyes became more confident, privileged, self-assured, and condescending; while the blue-eyed children became indecisive, submissive, and resentful. Many of these same attitudes and behaviors were exhibited in the play during the therapy session, with the white partners displaying many of the privileged, brown-eyed attitudes, beliefs, and behaviors.





“Antebellum Sexual Performance Therapy” and the Blue eyes – Brown eyes Simulation also recalled my own days as a U.S. History teacher at St. Bernard High School in 1972-73 when I used historical role-playing simulations with my own students. I wanted them to understand the reasons for the actions and attitudes of people in historical situations: Colonial Puritanism, Revolution, Slavery and Civil War, Reconstruction, and Industrialization. My own university training in history was always critical and I wanted my students to do the same. Otherwise, how would we as American citizens learn from historical wrongs? Role-playing and simulations placed students in historical settings facing situations and dilemmas of the past so they could understand them and seek better solutions. In these simulations I never structured the Civil War in nostalgic, Gone with the Wind, terms as being fought over libertarian and States’ Rights. The Civil War was a Southern rebellion, fought over Slavery and the maintenance of a plantation system that justified and codified slavery into social, racial, and legal terms. While the Civil War and Reconstruction may have ended the institution of Slavery, the Jim Crow Era that followed simply imposed a new type of racially repressive system in the United States which denied social and Civil Rights to American Black citizens – the children and grandchildren of slaves – well into the 1960’s.


During the debriefing and processing of the Second Act, the white participants seemed to take refuge in the Obama Era belief in America as being a “post-racial” society. They expressed the attitude that we Americans no longer harbored the racist attitudes, beliefs, and practices of the past. Yet it was they, the white partners, who did most of the talking, explaining, and justifying in the session. They clearly assumed the prominent and dominant positions in their relationships until their black partners finally erupted in their own declarations of emancipation. I thought that this interaction mirrored many of the dynamics of the Critical Race Theory Controversy that is sweeping many Southern and Mid-West states and manifested in their desire to dominate School Boards so as to ban any curriculum, textbooks, and books that resurrect or negatively portray the sins and practices of slavery and racism. As I posed the question to my students: If we cannot analyze and critique the actions of the past, how can we learn from our history to become and remain a better nation and people?

Lastly, I must confess that as I watched the play, some part of me stayed aloof from the racially conflicted characters on the stage. As a first-generation Mexican American I felt that I was not depicted in this drama. I was neither black nor white – I was Hispanic, a “person of color”. My immigrant grandparents too were racially profiled and subjected to discriminatory Jim Crow laws, attitudes, and practices in Texas and California in the early 1900’s. I leaned comfortably back in my seat and sat in solidarity with my black brothers and sisters in the audience and on the stage in judgement, as the white partners in the racial therapy “white-splained” their anti-racist, non-white, color-blindness, until the white researcher-therapist grandly revealed herself as a Latina, a person of color who could truly relate to, and understand, the black men and woman in the session. It struck me then that this was the universal excuse that all descendants of immigrants use when accused of prejudice or racism. How can we be racist if our Italian, Irish, Mexican, Asian, or Jewish ancestors were subjected to white, Protestant-American discrimination and racism? It struck me finally that this idea was a false assumption. No matter how much racism, prejudice, and discrimination our immigrant forefathers and mothers suffered in America, they were never slaves – viewed and treated as legally disposable property that could be bought and sold, used, abused, and destroyed on a whim. It was a moment of uncomfortable self-revelation. The Slave Play was about me – especially if I am unwilling to look critically at slavery in America and its racist residue in today’s American society. We as a nation cannot escape our history and the legacy of slavery – “acting like nothing’s wrong” – unless we are willing to face it and address the “virus” of racism that still exists and manifests itself in countless actions and reactions in America.

What’ll I do when you are far away
And I am blue?
What’ll I do?

What’ll I do
With just a photograph
To tell my troubles to?

When I’m alone with only dreams of you
That won’t come true,(What’ll I Do: Irving Berlin – 1923


I could feel the sob beginning to well up when the Carpenters’ song, “We’ve Only Just Begun”, started playing. It was on the soundtrack of the video Brian Kirst had produced for the Memorial Mass Reception at the Army and Navy Club, in Washington DC. Until that point, the video and soundtrack had offered nostalgic and sometimes funny vignettes and photographs of Mary Ellen and Bill Kirst and their family and friends over the years. Going backward and forward in time, starting from their wedding day in 1966, the video showed movies and stills of Mary Ellen with her mom and dad, sisters and brothers, children and grandchildren, and their other family and friends. The locales of the scenes and photos varied from around the world: Moscow, Rome, Washington DC, Ireland, Germany, Switzerland, Iran, Poland, Texas, and Sherman Oaks, California. Mary Ellen had led a remarkable life and the video captured the humor, bravery, stubbornness, and wonder of her life and her love of family. Yet the song, “We’ve Only Just Begun” struck a nerve for me and gave the video a new and unifying context. The song became a narrative of the life Mary Ellen had lived for 54 years with her husband Bill. It started with “white lace and promises, a kiss for luck” and they were “on their way”. They had “so many roads to choose” and they started out walking and learned to run. The song is about beginnings – the beginning of M.E. and Bill’s marriage, their life together, and the continuing beginnings of the lives of their children and grandchildren. It was poignant and sad at the same time, but still and all, I managed to keep my welling sob from springing forth until I heard the next and final song on the soundtrack. Leaving the humorous and travel photos behind, Judy Garland’s version of Irving Berlin’s song ushered in a new series of photos of M.E. with only her husband, children, and grandchildren. I could feel the haunting question Judy Garland posed in her song echoing in the hearts of all those attending – each in their own way: “What’ll I do when you are far away? What’ll I do?” What would we all do, with the departure of Mary Ellen Greaney Kirst from our lives?






 All my resolve at being steady, solid, and unemotional in supporting Kathy at all the previous memorial events collapsed with Judy Garland’s song, and my stifled sob broke free and tears began to flow. When I caught sight of Brian at the conclusion of the video, I managed to collect myself and approached him, saying in a choked-up voice, “You son of a bitch! Your bloody video made me cry!” He hugged me fiercely in reply, and said, “Thanks, Tony, that’s what it was supposed to do”.



I had heard tales of Mary Ellen long before I first met her at the Greaney family Christmas party in 1973. During the earliest days of our dating Kathy never tired of telling me stories of her family – her parents, her Aunt Mary and Uncle Clay, and her 9 sisters and brothers. But in those tales of a proud and unique Irish American family, three women always stood out: Mary, her mother, Mary Ellen, the eldest sister, and Debbie, who was born a year after Mary Ellen. Being the third daughter in sibling succession, it always made sense to me that Kathy admired her mom, and in many ways idealized and looked up to her two older sisters. They were both beautiful, young high school and college women – smart, independent, and proud – but Mary Ellen seemed to occupy a special place in her heart. Kathy told me stories of her unique humor, her marvelous laugh, and her fearlessness and boldness to seek out adventure and confront prejudice and meanness. According to Kathy, M.E. was a beauty who looked like the young actress Dolores Hart and had countless suitors. She loved driving through the San Fernando Valley, Hollywood, and West L.A.; challenged the blackballing tactics of her sorority; and enlisted in the Navy as a nurse during her last years at Mount St. Mary’s College. The story was that upon learning from her nursing friend Kathy McGroarty, that delayed enlistment as a Navy Nurse provided paid college tuition and a salary, she impulsively enlisted and bought herself a Mustang convertible with the money. I think in many ways Kathy envied M.E.’s independence in never being under anyone thumb and making her own surprising choices and decisions, sometimes running counter to the wishes of her parents. Her announcement that she was engaged to Bill Kirst after only six months of dating was one of the biggest. The urgency was caused because they were both going into the military soon and they wanted to be together during their training. Kathy still describes the day Mary Ellen left for training in Rhode Island as “the saddest day in my life”, because she knew M.E. would never return to live in their home as her sister.











 By the time I met Mary Ellen and Bill at Christmas in 1973, they had been married for eight years with a daughter, Margi, and were on the verge of leaving for Rome to work for the accounting firm Price-Waterhouse. I remember having a long conversation with Bill when he discovered that I was completing graduate work in Latin American Studies and looking forward to a career in the Foreign Service of the State Department. It seemed to match up with his own desire to work overseas and travel the world. However, I was immediately captivated by M.E., and she proved to be everything Kathy had described: charming, funny, witty, and smart. She too engaged me in conversation and wanted to know all about me – where I’d grown up, gone to school, majored in college, and of my plans.  She was obviously curious about how I had managed to win the affection of her younger sister who had never brought a suitor to the family Christmas party, and I wanted to make a good impression. Kathy had briefed me that M.E. “did not suffer fools” so I tried hard to win her over without being obvious. I felt that a “thumbs up” from Mary Ellen was crucial in my relationship with Kathy. Happily, we found many commonalities to talk about and share that evening, and it didn’t hurt when I mentioned that I had been a Goldwater supporter in 1964. Ultimately though, I believe M.E. always judged me on how much I loved Kathy and how that was translated in my actions and behaviors toward her and our children. I too grew to love her intelligence, her humor and orneriness, and devotion to her family. I think Kathy’s “saddest day” was repeated in August of 1974, when M.E., Bill, and Margi left for Rome. Except for a brief sojourn in Orange County, California, the Kirst family, which would ultimately include Katie, Bill, Mary, Kevin, and Brian, spent the next 20 years traveling the world at work or vacationing: Rome, Tehran, Houston, Warsaw, Moscow, Frankfurt, Galway, Basil, and finally Washington D.C. Except for visits and vacations, Mary Ellen, Kathy’s eldest sister, never returned to live in Los Angeles, California. On August 14, 2020, Mary Ellen passed away at Suburban Hospital in Bethesda, Maryland due to complications from a heart attack after surgery.






Even though I’ve experienced the death of my own mother and father, grandparents, and many more relatives and friends, I’ve come to believe that there can still be nothing more devastating than suffering the sudden and unexpected death of a sibling. When a sister or brother dies, I feel that a part of you dies with them. The events, memories, and stories that the departed sibling experienced and shared with you through childhood and young adulthood are gone – never to be remembered or recounted again. With their death, it is as if the treasured personnel file that only your brother or sister kept on you has been shredded, burned, and turned to ash. A part of your past has been buried with them. What made the death of Mary Ellen Kirst so doubly hard to bear for her siblings was the separation caused by its suddenness, and the distance and travel restrictions imposed during the COVID-19 pandemic. I cannot fathom the grief and sense of helplessness and loss suffered by M.E.’s eight surviving Greaney siblings when they learned of her unexpected heart attack and subsequent death in Washington D.C. and were prevented from attending her funeral and burial in August of 2020. Only their brother Mike, who lives in Connecticut, and their nephew Jeff Parker, who lives in Chicago, were able to attend and participate at the funeral mass and burial. The remaining brother and six sisters were forced to restrain their natural inclination to be present at the funeral and burial and stay at home, making do with a private mass at the home of Meg and Lou Samaniego, and dealing privately with the emotions they found difficult to express. Without the full benefit of religious ritual, and the embrace of one’s family and friends, how does a sibling living in Los Angeles, California, mourn and begin processing the grief of their loss? This essay is my way of describing how the Kirst family provided the healing answer to this haunting question.












Several months after M.E.’s funeral and burial, Kathy received an email from Margi explaining that the Kirst family wished to host a Memorial Funeral Mass and Reception on the anniversary of Mary Ellen’s death, and to hold a private rosary at the burial site followed by a family brunch at her home. Phone calls followed and Kathy enthusiastically conveyed the information to her siblings, indicating immediately that she planned to attend. “Showing up” is a Greaney Family hallmark. The 10 original siblings showed up for family events, both joyous and sad – swim and diving competitions, basketball and water polo, birthdays, plays and recitals, marriages, baptisms, and funerals. They could turn sad events into celebrations, and happy events into parties. It was simply a matter of time, as word spread, and husbands and wives talked, that the list of those siblings and family members able to travel to D.C. for the memorial grew to 14: Kathy and I, Mike, Greg and Anne, Meg and Lou, Tootie, Tere and Mike, and Jeff and Lynn with their two daughters, Grace and Constance.








The day we arrived at Washington was a kaleidoscope of action and emotions: apprehension at being in a crowded LAX; anticipating the weekend during the long flight; joy at seeing Margi and her son drive up to pick us up at National Airport; delight at listening to her describe the different places we could visit near our hotel where we could eat and reunite with other family members; and the wonder of being together after so many months apart. Meeting at an Irish pub nearby called Kirwan’s on the Wharf, our original party of six eventually expanded to 13 with the arrival of Tootie, Greg and Anne, Billy Kirst, Margi and Ron, and Theresa Colston. That dinner pretty much set the tone for the next two days. Although the plan was to attend the 3 “official” events (Rosary, Funeral Mass, and Reception), the imperative was to be together as often as possible. We would be together in varying large numbers throughout the weekend, and in that unity was a sense of strength and resolve to celebrate the wonderous life Mary Ellen had with her siblings, children, and the family members who could remember her – each in their own way – toasting and recounting stories of M.E., and the ways she had affected and influenced their lives.





While I participated wholeheartedly in all these reunions, get-togethers, and activities, I tried to keep myself separate from the emotional grief that underpinned them for Kathy and her siblings. I found shelter in my camera. I would use it at the cemetery during the rosary, at the brunch at Margi and Ron’s home, and at the church during the mass. The lens I placed in front of the individuals and groups I photographed gave me the space to stand emotionally apart from the underlying sadness of the events. The itinerary of events was very proscribed – which was very typical of Bill Kirst who is “a man, a plan, and a canal” type of guy. On Saturday morning, one year from the day that Mary Ellen died, all family members who had traveled to D.C. were picked up by designated Kirst drivers and transported to All Souls Cemetery. There, our sequenced arrivals quickly took on the festive atmosphere of a mobilizing family reunion. Kirst family members we had not seen for years were finally present, and the cacophony of greetings and hugs grew louder and stronger as more and more Greaneys’ and Kirst drivers emerged from the cars to greet them. I moved from group to group with my camera hoping to catch the joyous mood of the gathering crowd, but I couldn’t miss how each member of the Greaney family spent time gazing at Mary Ellen tombstone, which was the focal point of the tented arrangement of chairs. The chiseled granite tombstone was impressive – decorated with an Irish Cross and military symbols – but there was an unsettling sight that all of us gradually noted. Directly in front of the stone marker was a long rectangle of unseeded dirt which indicated the exact location where Mary Ellen was laid to rest. I didn’t think much of it at the time because the happiness of seeing so many long absent relatives was overwhelming. When the plethora of greetings, hugs, and reminisces concluded, Bill, standing behind the tombstone, called for our attention and commenced the ceremony. Explaining the importance of the ritual, he asked us all to come together to recite the funeral Rosary which usually takes place during the vigil, the night prior to a funeral mass and burial.






 I must confess, at first, I thought the rosary redundant. M.E.’s actual funeral and burial had already taken place the year before, and I feared the unleashing of immeasurable grief at its renewal. But I respected Bill and the wishes of the family and tried hiding the emotions that I knew would well up at the recitation of the rosary with my camera. It didn’t help. A different member of the Kirst family led in the recitation of the five decades of the rosary: Theresa, then Ron, then Patrick, then Christopher, and finally Mary. Although there is comfort in the recitation of long-ago memorized prayers, every Our Father and Hail Mary seemed to tear at the hearts of those responding, especially when led by the childish voices of Christopher and Patrick. Their voices – sometimes strong and confident, other times low and quivering – brought forth tender images and memories of their grandmother. When the rosary concluded, I thankfully let out a deep breath, believing that the ceremony was over – but it wasn’t. Bill again resumed his position behind the stone and stated that he wished to reenact the ritual performed at Dr. Greaney’s burial, where each of his children placed a red rose on his grave. In slow procession, each of M.E.’s siblings received a pink rose from Theresa and placed them on the tombstone and on the rectangular site of M.E.’s interment. This was followed by their spouses being asked to do the same. It was a startling request. Bill was asking the spouses to be more than witnesses to these family rituals, he was asking us to share in the depth of their loss.









It was only weeks later, while listening to Kathy and her sister Tere recalling the rosary and funeral mass, that the symbolism of the roses on the dirt struck me. The laying of roses at M.E.’s gravesite elicited images of St. Juan Diego, the Mexican Indian, who, when soliciting proof of the miraculous appearance of the Virgin Mary at Tepeyac, was directed by her to gather up roses from a nearby hillside in his “tilma” and present them to the Archbishop of Mexico City. When he did so, and as the roses cascaded from his “tilma” onto the ground, the archbishop saw the imprint of the Virgen of Guadalupe on the cloth that hangs at the Cathedral today. You may ascribe this association to the mind of a cradle Catholic who is still susceptive to religious signs and symbols, but something special happened that day at All Souls Cemetery, and it was more than just a repetition of prayers.


After the somberness of the rosary, the following brunch hosted by Margi and Ron was a celebration and a feast. It reminded me so much of the Greaney Christmases I’ve attended since first meeting M.E. and Bill in 1973, with different groups forming and breaking up into conversation and laughter; and being able to rotate from group to group, listening to the talk and jokes, and deciding to join or walk on to a different group. Margi and Ron’s home resonated with voices on different topics and with countless reasons for laughter. The only interruption came when I suggested that we retire outside to take photos of all the groups and individuals present. Since the day of Aunt Mary’s funeral reception at Lakeside, family photos have been an important touchstone for the Greaney’s at these events. Despite the sadness of their loss, they took the time to document the occasion as a celebration of the life that has passed and the lives that will continue forward. It’s a way of remembering the past, the present, and the future. At the conclusion of the photo session the party slowly subsided and we soon returned to our respective hotels. Any lingering emotions of grief dissipated later that day when Kathy made dinner reservations for a large family gathering at our hotel for the Greaney contingent. The Kirst’s were planning a private dinner that night, so the Greaney clan, which numbered 14, was on its own until the memorial mass on Sunday. Dinner proved to be another family celebration, with people moving from place to place, while talking about school, sports, movies, and travel plans. It was a satisfying end to a cathartic day.














On Sunday, I felt that everyone “girded up” for M.E.’s memorial mass and reception. The liturgy readers for the mass – Greg, Kathy, Mary, and Lou – were nervous and uncertain in giving voice to words they had been asked to read; and the men and women attending wore formal attire for the first time that weekend. I of course took shelter with my camera. I asked Margi if it was all right to photograph during mass, and she encouraged me to do so. “I want you to take pictures of everything,” she said, “we want to remember today”. It was a tough memorial mass for the Kirst’s and the Greaney’s – especially during the readings and the singing. Kathy, Greg, and Lou were solid in their recitations, but hearing Mary Kirst, the lone sibling, read was heartbreaking. Softly and slowly, never looking up to see the crowd of people who were in attendance, she read. I couldn’t imagine the courage it took for her to do this alone. I think everyone managed to contain themselves well until Jeff and Theresa began singing Panis Angelicus. I, with my camera, concentrating on the singers, could not bear to see how M.E.’s siblings, spouses, and children were reacting. Although the assemblage in front of church after a funeral mass is very much like a baptism or wedding, with large groups of people gathering and talking, I couldn’t treat it as such. I took some photos of couples I knew but chose not to intrude on anyone else. I felt that my sojourn as official photographer was over, and I resolved to simply be an objective observer at the reception scheduled at the Army and Navy Club. My job was done. Through the lens of my camera, I’d wanted to show the Kirst and Greaney families at their best: happy at being brought together in sadness at the loss of their wife, mother, and sister, but intent on celebrating her life, and united in the joyous belief that all of Mary Ellen’s struggles, pains, and debilitations were behind her. She was at peace. Safe in the comfort of the Faith that had sustained her throughout her life, and in the company of her deceased parents and sister Debbie.















Postscript: If your are interested in watching the Kirst video for Mary Ellen, the link follows below:

https://m.box.com/shared_item/https%3A%2F%2Fapp.box.com%2Fs%2Fsrrevnvypmzjj2kqrf4h8f16hcwdwj16

Sisters, sisters,
There were never such devoted sisters.
Never had to have a chaperone, no sir.
I’m here to keep my eye on her.

Caring, sharing
Every little thing that we are wearing…
All kinds of weather, we stick together,
The same in the rain and sun.
Two different faces, but in tight places
We think and act as one.

Those who’ve seen us
Know that not a thing can come between us.
Many men have tried to split us up, but no one can.
Lord help the mister who comes between me and my sister.
(Sisters: Irving Berlin – 1954)



Recently Kathy and I hosted our two granddaughters, Sarah and Gracie, for an overnight sleepover – giving their parents, Prisa and Joe, some quality private time and a sleep-in morning. These sleepovers are always interesting for us because they give us the opportunity to observe these two youngsters at their current levels of maturity. They also give us the chance to interact with them: learning and playing their new board games, listening to their stories of school, and taking long walks with them to the neighborhood 7-11 Store for slurpees. What especially delights me is watching their joyful interactions and realizing that they are sisters – the most intimate of companions for years to come until they are bonded in a lifelong union of love and common history. And yet they remain very distinct girls, at very different levels of physical development and emotional maturity. This fact was clearly demonstrated when we saw them playing basketball in February and March…


I had just re-situated myself into a new seat along the sideline of the basketball court when I noticed that Sarah, the tall, blonde-haired point guard of her third-grade team was slowly and casually dribbling the ball up-court with her left hand. As an opposing defender approached her from that side, she quickly shifted the ball to the other hand and began driving to the right corner. I barely had time to react and position my camera to shoot as she sped along my side of the court. “Click-click-click-click” went the shutter as she blurred past me, putting out her left arm to fend off the opposing player. She reached the corner of the court and head-faked a halt to freeze the defender before suddenly stopping and hefting a shot at the basket. It struck the opposite side of the hoop and the slowly rimmed out. More than feeling the disappointment of her miss, I prayed that I had managed to capture her impressive drive and shot on camera. I couldn’t stop feeling amazed at the progress of her basketball skills since the last time we’d seen her play.





Sarah’s game was the second in a double-header we watched that weekend. Kathy and I had seen her 5-year old sister, Gracie, play in her Torrance playground league the day before. We did this over two months – each time spending the night between games at a nearby hotel to avoid the long car rides back and forth from the west San Fernando Valley to catch two games on consecutive mornings. This last double-header was in February, so a month had passed since we’d seen the girls play – and their progress was stunning.

Sarah is 9-years old and Gracie is 5, and they play the game at very differing levels of ability. Sarah has played organized basketball for three years now and Gracie is just beginning, so there is a wide disparity in their games. As point guard of her 3^rd Grade team, Sarah is a fierce competitor, looking up as she pushes the ball downcourt, switching hands on the dribble, and slashing past defenders. Gracie is just learning the game – dribbling with both hands and occasionally losing control of the ball, and barely reaching the hoop when she shots. It is great fun watching and photographing these two young cagers, although I have to admit Gracie’s games are much more humorous because all her other teammates play in the same awkward manner. No points are tallied on the scoreboard, which only shows the time remaining in the game, and all the family spectators cheer when either team manages to score. What these girls do best is run up and downcourt, and eagerly look forward to being substituted out so they can sit in the bleachers and rest with their parents. We can always tell when Gracie’s interest in the game begins waning because, when she doesn’t have the ball, she begins skipping downcourt instead of running, and starts doing cartwheels on the court whenever there is a pause in the action. Sarah, on the other hand, is a consistent study of intensity on defense and offense.






There is a truism in sibling relationships that younger siblings always desire to imitate the actions and sporting activities of their older brothers or sisters. That was certainly the case with my own brother, Arturo, who was one year younger than I. Art always wanted to play the games and sports I played, and to tag along with me and my friends. I witnessed it again while watching my own children grow up. My son Toñito was two years older than Prisa, so I had him learning to play soccer, baseball, and basketball first – put Prisa was always in the background watching and wanting to play as well. She very quickly joined in, shagging balls that Toñito hit, playing catch with us, kicking soccer balls, and rebounding and shooting baskets. Eventually Prisa sustained her love of organized sports through high school and college, while Toñito’s sporting interest waned, choosing to emphasize theater instead. As I watched my granddaughters grow up, I suspected at first that Gracie would deviate from this sibling tendency, because she showed such different developmental patterns than her older sister, with very disparate likes and dislikes. As an infant, Gracie preferred riding over walking, solitary play over interactive ones, and rarely agreeing with my suggestions for lunch meals, outings, and outdoor activities – as her sister had. However, since attending the same school as Sarah over the last two years and watching how she wants to imitate and compete in all of Sarah’s sporting and extracurricular activities, I’m not so sure anymore.







Gracie’s games continue to be more entertaining because of the limited skills of all the novice players, but their improvements have been huge. Since watching her play a month ago, Gracie has scored baskets and was now playing and dribbling with more confidence and always looking to shoot. One sequence I caught on camera was very similar to the one I described above of Sarah. Gracie was dribbling the ball up-court (with one or two hands), and when halted by a defender she stopped, then pushed past her (holding the ball), until she positioned herself on the left side of the basket and heaved up a shot that ALMOST went in. Scoring baskets is always nice, but the joy and buoyancy these 5-year-old girls exhibit in running, guarding, and trying to dribble and shoot make the games delightful to watch. Sarah still shows some of this child-like exuberance when she plays (and especially when the games are over), and I hope both girls continue feeling it as they get older and more skillful. However, there is another aspect of sibling relationships that I have noticed more and more, and it may have something to do with Gracie’s desire to imitate Sarah’s sporting interests – sibling rivalry.




Being 3 years older than Gracie, Sarah was always very solicitous and caring of her sister as an infant baby, and little girl, but by the time Gracie was walking, talking, and expressing her desires at two years old, their interactions began to exhibit some levels of conflict. Gracie started calling Sarah “bossy” and “selfish” and wanted to be treated in the same manner as her older sister or given the same gifts and benefits offered to an older child. As I watched them during our recent sleepover, these interactions can become very acrimonious at times, and Kathy and I are challenged to referee and resolve them peacefully. These sibling “fights” reminded me of the ones I had with my own brother Arthur, who was only 1 year younger. As the older brother I always felt put upon and victimized because it seemed to me that I always had to be the understanding one and back off or give in to Arthur’s complaints about me. I had to take him along when my friends and I went to the playground or park to play sports and had to include him in our games. Thankfully our conflicts decreased as we got older. Strangely I never noticed my sisters having these manifestations of sibling rivalry, nor my two younger brothers, although I think they are a normal product of sibling development. At least I hope so, because over the years I’ve observed that there seems to exist a special “sisterhood” of sorts among girls and women, especially between sisters and cousins. Girls and women seem to interact and form a unique bond of friendship, love, and unity, that provides an endless source of solace and support in times of trial and difficulty. I’ve been fortunate to see this bonding modeled by Kathy and her sisters, and by Prisa and her cousins. This is the bond I hope to see grow and develop in Sarah and Grace as they minimize their arguments, mature as siblings, and are taught to sing the Irving Berlin song Sisters, by their grandmother, great-aunts, and female cousins.