Birthday Numbers

Today is my birthday, my 76th, but I feel much younger...well, most of the time...ok, maybe sometime. They sang “Happy Birthday” to me in church this morning, right after the final blessing. It was a surprise, but very nice. It would have been nicer if Dear Diane had been there, but her shoulder was acting up, so I left her in bed with the ice machine soothing her pain. Dear Diane’s ad:

I think young people tend to forget, or simply ignore, the birthdays of their elders under the mistaken belief that anyone that old wouldn't want to be reminded of it. Here they're wrong. Older folks are really more like little children and take secret pride in their advancing age.

Remember when you were a kid and someone asked, “How old are you...five or six?” How did you respond? “I’m six and a half!” To be seen as only five was a huge insult, and six simply wasn’t good enough. You wanted everyone to know exactly how old you really were. Of course, at that age the years crawled by, so half-years were far more meaningful.

We old folks are much the same. 30 years ago I never would have asked a woman her age. But here in The Villages, they don’t give me a chance to ask. I need only say, “Hi, how are you today?”, and I’m greeted with, “Wonderful! Not bad considering I turn 79 next week.” What do you say to that? You have to say something. Here it’s best to remember how seniors and little kids differ. Both are proud of their actual age, but kids want you to think they’re older, while seniors want to be known as old but viewed as younger. Probably the safest response is something like, “79! You’re kidding! You can’t be 79.” That covers all the bases.

Of course birthdays are linked to time itself, and for me, time is probably the most intriguing aspect of God’s creation of space and time. (Read St. Augustine's Confessions, chapter 11 for one of the better discussion on this.) 

When it comes to space, we can revisit places again and again. They might have changed a bit over time, but they’re still there and usually still recognizable. If I’m planning a future trip to a new place, I can even call up Google Earth and check it out. Oddly, although I’m actually looking at the past as it appears on my computer screen, for me it’s more a peek into the future, a glimpse of the place I intend to visit. 

It’s with time that things get a bit messy. We can’t reclaim the past because it’s irretrievable, but we can call it back as a memory. 

My earliest memories are quite early. I remember watching my dad and brother playing in the snow in our backyard in rural Nichols, Connecticut when I was only two years old...well, ok, two years and five months old. I was sitting with my mom at our bay window looking out at the two of them and wanting so badly to join them. Years later, when I described this memory to my mother, she was amazed that I could recall that day. “You had a bad cold,” she said, “I was very worried about you, and wouldn’t let you go outside. My gosh! That was in February 1947, and you remember that?” Yep.

I have quite a few memories of my third year, again all in Connecticut. I’ve always been an early riser. Even as a young child, I would awaken long before everyone else, leave my room, and sit down in the hallway at the top of the stairway. There I’d be joined by our dog, a German Shepherd named Clipper. He and I would lie down, my head resting on his side, while I rattled on, sharing my thoughts. Clipper was a tolerant beast and feigned interest. Often my voice would waken my parents (I’ve never been a quiet talker) and Dad would come into the hallway and ask me, “Who are you talking to?” I, of course, thought that a silly question and simply said, “Clipper.” I have many other memories of Clipper, a terrific dog whose only vice was his uncontrollable desire to kill our neighbor’s chickens. 

Birthdays generate other thoughts. I was born in 1944, so someone who was my current age then -- 76 years old -- was born in 1868, just a few years after the end of the Civil War. If we repeat this exercise and go back another 76 years, we find ourselves in the year 1792, when the French Revolution was in full bloodbath mode, setting the stage for the far bloodier revolutions of the 20th century. 

Speaking of the French Revolution, when I was 13 I met a 96-year-old man born in 1861 in Philadelphia. His grandfather had left France in a hurry in the midst of the revolution because as an apprentice cabinet maker his shop in Paris had made furniture for French royals. For the revolutionaries this apparently was a capital offence. Born in 1776, he was only 17 years old when he made his way to America thanks to a gift from a wealthy friend. Arriving in Baltimore, he managed to find work in Philadelphia, again as a cabinet maker. He died in 1870, at the age of 94. (His grandson attributed the family's longevity to the daily consumption of French wines.) 

But that's just the background. The interesting part of the story began when the grandson told me his grandfather had made some furniture for Thomas Jefferson and visited Monticello on several occasions during the early 1800s. The old man had also told him many more stories of meeting other famous Americans during our nation's infancy. That's when it hit me. Old age and the compression of time placed me just two people away from our founding fathers. 

Maybe 80 years from now, one of my grandchildren will tell stories to his grandchildren of that strange year, 2020, and what his aging grandfather told him about a world so very different from the world they'll be facing then. 

Cherish the memories, friends. Share them and let the past live in the minds and hearts of those who follow. 

God's peace...and a Happy Birthday to all others who may be celebrating today.

How Old Is Old?

Today I became, according to our diocese here in central Florida, a Senior Deacon...Ta-da!

On a number of occasions parishioners, noticing that several deacons are listed in our Parish Bulletin as "senior deacons," have asked me, "What does a deacon have to do to become a senior deacon?" I think they assume the title must be conferred as a reward for some great accomplishment. When I tell them that seniority among deacons is strictly a function of age, they seem both surprised and disappointed. In other words, for a deacon to become a senior deacon he must have been born 75 years ago and still be able to fog a mirror. And today, for the very first time, I qualify.

I was born in the midst of World War II, just a few months after D-Day. But for my mom and dad a more immediate concern was the Great Atlantic Hurricane of 1944 which reached its peak intensity as a category 4 on, you guessed it, September 13. A few days later it roared through coastal New York, Connecticut, and Rhode Island making things a bit difficult for my mom. I don't know the details, but I can confirm that she made it to the hospital -- St. Vincent Hospital in Bridgeport, Connecticut -- and I was the result.

Today then, is my 75th birthday. I'm not a superstitious man, but today is also Friday the 13th, an interesting day to turn 75. But that's not all. This evening the heavens will also mark my birthday with a bright Harvest Moon, a full moon that rises just after sunset during the early fall months, this year in September. Take a moment this evening to step outside and glimpse our planet's nearest neighbor, to contemplate God's goodness and thank Him for the beauty and wonder of His Creation. 

I've been enjoying the clear pre-dawn mornings as Maddie and I take our dalily walk through our neighborhood. She tends to look downward so she can revisit the smells of the recent past. But I look upward and revisit the sights of a much more distant past. This morning I noticed that Betelgeuse, a red giant star in Orion, was particularly bright. At over 600 light years away, the orange dot we see is the result of light that began its journey at the end of the 14th century. I once read that Betelgeuse is one of those relatively short-lived stars -- only a few million years old -- that might well go supernova (i.e., explode) sometime during the next 1,000 years or so. Indeed, it could already have done so, but the visible effects simply haven't reached us yet. One astronomer wrote that this would be a truly spectacular sight, one that would rival the full moon in its brightness. By the way, Betelgeuse is so large, that if it replaced our sun, it would fill our solar system all the way out to Jupiter and perhaps even beyond. In other words, Earth would be inside this massive star, not a good place to be. Indeed, this star is so big I believe it's the only star (other than our sun) that we've been able to photograph and actually see its disk.

Betelgeuse compared to our solar system

I've long believed that God's gift of the universe helps us see our own lives more clearly. How wonderful that the God who created this magnificent universe has a personal and deep love for every person He has created. So often we get so wrapped up in the earthly problems that plague us, we think that only we can solve them, that we must solve them ourselves. Either we never consider asking God for help, or we assume He can't be bothered to deal with our petty concerns. But that's not how God is. The fact that He sent His Son to become one of us, to offer His life for us, is proof enough of His deep love for every human person. This is why it's good to look up at His universe every so often, just to remind ourselves how great God truly is. His Creation gives us a glimpse of His infinite power, something far beyond anything we can even imagine. God can handle anything. We need only ask.

Today I received a few pleasant and unexpected birthday phone calls, text messages, and emails...even a few snail-mail cards. The first call was from a Naval Academy classmate (1967), Buddy Barnes, whom I've probably seen only once or twice since we completed Naval flight training back in 1968. How kind of Buddy to call. We ended up talking for a good half-hour, just telling stories about our common experiences and the people we both knew way back when. Buddy left the Navy to fly for American Airlines and like most of us is now retired. He hopes to visit us here in Florida next year. It will be good to see him again. 

I also received calls from my two sons, Ethan and Brendan, and from my daughter, Erin, who was joined by four of her five children as they serenaded me with a peppy "Happy Birthday." The grandchildren all seemed surprised to learn how old I was...not a good sign. Young Eddie, however, was kind enough to say, "Well. Papa, you don't look that old." 

I intend to goof off this evening and trust all who read these words also give thanks for the blessings they have received.

Happy Brithday, Mom!

My mother, Martha Catherine (Cavanaugh) McCarthy, was born on June 28, 1909 in Fairfield, Connecticut. She died on March 12, 1977 in Hyannis, Massachusetts at the too young age of 67. Today, then, is the 110th anniversary of her birth. 

When she met my father, Mom was working as an RN at St,. VIncent's Hospital in Bridgeport, Connecticut. They married on the Fourth of July in 1935. And then, for the rest of her life, she was a wonderful, caring wife and mother, who somehow managed to keep the three males in her life on the straight and narrow...more or less. 

Our Family: me, Mom, Dad, Jeff (1950s)

The above family photo from the 1950s shows me, standing next to Mom, and Jeff, next to Dad. I believe it was taken overlooking the Hudson River. Boy! Those were days of innocence. Sadly, I'm the only one left. My dad, John McCarthy, died in 2005 and my only sibling, my brother, Jeff McCarthy, died in 2010. 

Now, as I near my 75th birthday, I expect the family baton to be passed on to the next generation in the not too distant future. As I mentioned to Diane the other day, "When you find yourself celebrating your parents' 110th birthdays, you know you're getting old." Yes, indeed...but it's been an enjoyable process; and should God will it, I might actually stick around for a few more years.  

But today, ignoring both past and future, I'll simply say, "Happy Birthday, Mom."

Happy Birthday, Mom

Martha Catherine (Cavanaugh) McCarthy was born at home in Fairfield, Connecticut on June 28, 1909. And so today would have been her 108th birthday. I guess when your mother was born 108 years ago, you know you're getting old. 

Mom at the time of my childhood

Mom was the youngest child in a large family of eight children. Actually, four of her siblings were half-siblings since her mother, Julia, was a remarried widow who had four more children in her second marriage. Mom was only nine years old when her mother died, and her father, Thomas Cavanaugh, subsequently remarried. Unfortunately his second wife wasn't the most agreeable person -- I suppose that's a nice, pastoral way of describing her -- and so I always got the impression that Mom's teenage years were not very pleasant. It was also during this period that she lost her closest sister, Edna, to what I believe was scarlet fever; a personal tragedy that affected Mom deeply.

After high school she entered nursing school at St. Vincent's Hospital in Bridgeport, CT and ultimately graduated as an RN. It was around this time that she met my father, and they married on July 4, 1935.

Mom, the new RN  

Mom was one of those quiet, thoughtful, and very intelligent people who prefer to stay in the background, far out of the limelight, but manage to have a significant positive impact on others. She died 40 years ago and I miss her deeply, but I still go to her for advice. That's the nice thing about memories: through them we can relive and relearn what others tried to teach us when we were too foolish to pay very much attention...but the words remain.

Happy Birthday, Mom. God's peace...