Dad und die Kinder

My father, John McCarthy, who was an Army captain at the time, entered Berlin with the occupation forces in 1945. He had two sons of his own back in the USA -- my brother, Jeff, born in 1941, and me, born in 1944. He enjoyed being with children and the kinder of Germany were no exception. The other day going through some old photos -- and there are literally thousands I have not yet looked at -- I came across this snapshot, probably taken by his old friend, the late Lee Hanel. He and Dad, both Army officers who served together, were avid photographers. 

I would guess that Dad was sharing some candy or sweets with the children. In the background you can see a number of German women looking on. Sadly, some of them probably lost their husbands in the war -- men who were drafted into the Wehrmacht, forced to fight Hitler's losing war. Many never returned. One can only imagine what these young mothers were thinking as they watched this American treating their children with kindness. I recall Dad once mentioning the "war children" of Germany, and telling me, "The children had nothing to do with the war, with Hitler, with the carnage, and the brutality. That was done by adults. I always tried to be friendly and kind to them." Sometimes a simple black and white photo is worth far more than a thousand words.

Pray for peace.

Happy Birthdays

Today is my mom’s birthday. Martha Catherine Cavanaugh was born on June 28, 1909 in Fairfield, Connecticut. My dad, John Joseph McCarthy, was born on July 24 of the same year in Springfield, Massachusetts. Both, then, were born within a few weeks of each other 111 years ago. Although Mom died in 1977 at the age of 67, Dad lived for many more years and died in 2005 at the age of 95. So, it's only fitting I wish them both a Happy 111th Birthday. 

Mom and Dad enjoying a beer in the 1950s

I don't know why, but there's something about 111 that seems rather special to me. I've always liked numbers, so I suppose it just the repeating 1s. Of course, having parents who were born 111 years ago also reminds me of the fact that I'm getting on in age. Indeed, as I recall my own life I think of those birthdays that have special meaning.

As for my childhood birthdays, I don't recall any being very memorable. But my 16th birthday was different. With it came the ability to apply for the sought after driver’s license, bringing mobility and freedom, along with enhanced dating opportunities. 

Turning 18 meant only two things in suburban New York back in 1962: I could buy a beer for 15 cents at McGarvey’s, a local pub, and I could now drive in The City. The former was pretty cool but the latter was something only a fool would do. 
By the way, McGarvey's was actually just a bar, but some of us thought it would be much classier if we called it a pub. 

I suppose the 21st birthday is special in another way. On that day the child suddenly considers himself an adult, even if he prefers not to act like one. And in New York back then, you could drink a beer at 18, but had to be 21 to vote. Now the opposite is true. I prefer the former.

Actually, my 23rd birthday was rather special because I first met Dear Diane just three days later on a blind date. Hard to believe that happy day was almost 53 years ago. I took her to a football game, with the Navy Pensacola team, the Goshawks, quarterbacked by Roger Staubach. We then went to a rowdy party and I didn't get her home until waaaay too late.

The 30th, another coming-of-age birthday, marks one’s arrival at an age that separates youth from all the rest. Yes, indeed, once you’ve joined the over-30 crowd, there’s no going back. By then, however, Diane and I already had three children and I was enjoying my career in the Navy. My youth was long past. 

When I reached 40, I tried to ignore it, but my friends threw a surprise birthday party simply to remind me of the arrival of middle age. As I recall the party had an almost funereal theme, lots of black decorations and stupid gag gifts.

But there’s something very real and slightly ominous about turning 50. I suppose it’s the half-century thing and knowing that the larger part of one’s life is in the past. 

I was too busy during my 50s and 60s to pay much attention to birthdays, although I’ll admit 75 came as a bit of a shock last year. It just crept up on me and took me by surprise. 

I haven’t a clue how many birthdays I have left, but it’s not a big number. Birthdays are like reverse milestones: we know how far we've gone, but have no idea how far we've got to go. I'm certain of only one thing. Like my parents I won't live to 111. 

Endings and Beginnings, Life and Death

Mom...R.N.

Today, June 28, is my mother's birthday. Martha Catherine McCarthy, née Cavanaugh, was born 105 years ago in Fairfield, Connecticut. She died far too young at the age of 67 and is buried on Cape Cod next to my father, John McCarthy, and my brother, Jeff, in Chatham, Massachusetts. Mom was a wonderful, faith-filled woman, a woman of tremendous patience and empathy who always seemed to know exactly what to say and do to ease the hurts and pain of others. The youngest of eight children, she hadn't yet entered her teens when her mother died, leaving her, until her father remarried, as the "woman of the house." I suspect she grew up quickly. Mom went on to graduate from nursing school and worked as an RN for several years before she and my father married on July 4, 1935. No day passes when I don't think of her. She is always with me, reminding me in her quiet way of what is right. Sometimes I actually listen.

Franz Ferdinand and Sophie

Back when I was in high school, I came home one afternoon all excited about a fact I had come across in my tenth-grade World History class: "Hey, Mom, did you know that Archduke Franz Ferdinand was assassinated on your birthday?"

"Yes," she said, "I'm well aware of that. I was just a little girl at the time, only five"

"Do you remember it?"

"Just vaguely. I remember my father saying something about the 'stupid Europeans' but I don't think he or many others thought it would lead to war."

So ended the conversation. Both of my maternal grandparents had immigrated from Ireland and I expect they were happy to forget about all things European.

Memory's an interesting thing. Because of its connection to my mother's birthday, I've always known the date of that fateful event that occurred in 1914, one-hundred years ago today. The assassination of the archduke and his wife, Sophie, in faraway Sarajevo meant far more than the tragic deaths of two of Europe's royals. It not only put into motion the chain of events that led to World War One, but also precipitated the global insanity that made the 20th century the bloodiest in human history. Hitler's National Socialism, Mussolini's odd brand of Italian fascism, and the Communist slavery of Lenin and Stalin all grew out of this horrendous war. And yes, "the war to end all wars," the war that would "make the world safe for democracy," did neither but instead gave us an even more horrendous global war. 

Interestingly, although that first war ended with an armistice on November 11, 1918 -- at the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month -- it wasn't officially over until the grossly irresponsible Treaty of Versailles was signed, interestingly on June 28, 1919, exactly five years after the Sarajevo assassination. This was also my mom's tenth birthday, a day I'm sure she remembered more clearly than the earlier date.

Yes, life and death often coincide on the calendar. Gavrilo Princip, the Bosnian Serb who assassinated the archduke and his wife, was born on July 25, 1894, exactly 105 years before the birth of my eldest grandchild, Pedro Santa Ana, who will celebrate his 13th birthday in a few weeks. The young assassin -- He was only 19 at the time -- died in prison of tuberculosis several months before the end of the war brought about by his actions.

Noor Inayat Khan

About 20 years ago, maybe a little more, I came across a book in a used book store in Norfolk, Virginia. Tucked away on a shelf labeled "Military History", it bore the intriguing but cryptic title, Noor-un-nisa Inayat Khan (Madeline). After flipping through its pages, I bought the book for all of three dollars. Once I began reading I couldn't put it down and finally finished it late that evening. 

I was captivated by the subject of this true story about a remarkably brave young woman. It was the story of Noor Inayat Khan, an Indian-born, Sufi Muslim who volunteered as an undercover agent for the British Special Operations Executive during World War Two. In June of 1943 she was flown to a secret landing site in France. For the next four months she worked with the French resistance radioing critical information back to London. While in Paris, she was betrayed to the Germans and captured in October 1943. She underwent a month of vicious interrogation during which she revealed nothing. Labeled an "extremely dangerous prisoner," she was sent to Germany where she was imprisoned for months in solitary confinement with her hands and feet shackled. Eventually Noor was sent to Dachau and summarily executed along with three other female undercover agents captured by the Germans: Yolande Beekman, Elaine Plewman and Madeleine Damerment.Their bodies were burned in the camp's crematorium.

Crematoria at Dachau

It was then I discovered that all four women were executed on the day I was born, September 13, 1944. I found this particularly interesting since I had actually visited Dachau with my family in the fall of 1951. Although I was just seven years old at the time, that visit made a lasting impression on me, especially the crematoria. Now, years later, I can't celebrate a birthday without thinking of this brave woman and her three companions whose lives ended just as mine was beginning.

Life and death, beginnings and endings -- every ending, every death brings a new beginning, new life. 

Photographic Fun

As some readers of this blog know, I'm an amateur (very amateur) photographer. It is a hobby I truly enjoy, and for a couple of reasons. First of all, photography permits me to capture and relive unique places, things, and moments in time. I simply enjoy preserving at least a glimpse of those things in our world that I find especially interesting and surprisingly beautiful. Photography allows me to stop time and enjoy these things again and again.

But photography also offers a kind of unexpected revelation, a surprising disclosure of detail or symmetry or color or light or contrast or beauty that was not fully grasped when the photo was taken. In other words, I especially enjoy being surprised by a photograph, when it seems to capture a moment and scene so differently or so much more completely than the reality I experienced when I took the photo.

Dad and his Leica in Germany

As with many of my traits and likes and dislikes, I seem to have inherited this interest in photography from my father. Like me, he always had a camera close by and the results of his six decades of picture taking are stacked on shelves here in my study -- thousands upon thousands of 35mm slides that I have been sorting through and scanning a few at a time for several years now. Of course, all of his photos were taken during the days of film, before the advent of digital photography. My goal, then, is to digitize his photographs and pass them on to his descendants. I'm especially interested in preserving the many photos he took at the end of World War II and during the subsequent occupation of Germany.

Dad always had the latest and greatest when it came to the things he enjoyed. He seemed to believe that one should never approach true interests hesitantly, but should jump in enthusiastically. I'm sure he would have loved digital photography and the tremendous freedom it offers the photographer. And, yes, I know there are still purists out there who use only film, but as digital technology continues to improve, I expect most will eventually make the transition.

For those of you who do no more than take occasional snapshots with your cell phone or point-and-shoot digital camera, I will give you a simple example of the capabilities of digital photography.

This afternoon, while going through some photos I took on a trip to Italy in 2010, I came across a picture taken of a portion of Siena's Piazza del Campo, one of the great medieval squares of Europe. The Campo is a large, oddly shaped square in the center of Siena in which the Palio, the city's famous annual horse races, are held. As Diane and I strolled along the edge of the piazza trying to choose a restaurant for lunch, I took a few photographs. I especially like one of these photos which depicts some of the locals and tourists enjoying the beautiful sunny afternoon following a rainy morning. Using Photoshop software, I gave the photo an "artsy" brush-stroke look, and printed it on my wide-format printer as an 11x14 color print. I will eventually print it in an even larger format on "canvas paper" to enhance the effect of a painting rather than a photograph. The doctored photo is below. Click on the image to enlarge it and you will better see what can be done quite simply with digital photography.

Siena's Piazza del Campo on a sunny afternoon

I also played with another photo taken on an earlier trip to Italy. This one is of a church in the Borgo district of Rome, adjacent to the Vatican. The Church, Santa Maria in Traspontina, has a beautiful old bell tower which I photographed. I thought the photo would be more dramatic in black and white so I used software to convert it and then printed it as a large 12x18 inch print. (See below)

Santa Maria in Traspontina (Rome)

Life and Death and Love and Hope

John McCarthy enjoying a fine cigar

Yesterday, July 24, would have been my father's 102nd birthday. Born in 1909 he died in 2005 at the age of 95, a long life by any standard. He was a far better father than I believe he thought he was, but I suspect that's probably true of many of us. So often we focus only on our mistakes and forget about all the good things -- the love, the example, and the hope -- we were able to share with our children. Life in a truly Christian family is always a story of shared faith, of mutual love and forgiveness, a story of godly virtues so often rising above the human failings; and such was the story of our family. Dad was a very happy man who thoroughly enjoyed the gift of his life and the lives of those he loved and those who loved him. And yet he had another gift, the gift of tears, an outward sign of his empathy for the plight of others, an empathy realized in remarkable generosity. I was, in many ways, formed by my father and I owe him a debt I will never be able to repay, and that's as it should be. John Joseph McCarthy, resquiescat in pace.

Nap time: Dad (93) & Pedro (1) in July 2002

Yesterday, however, was yesterday, the past. But today is our first step into the future because it's also the 10th birthday of our eldest grandson, Pedro. Talking about it today Diane and I both remarked how clearly we remembered that day a decade ago and the anxiety we experienced as we waited for him to be born. Since then we have been blessed with seven more wonderful grandchildren who never cease to astonish us with their intelligence and their goodness. One thing I have discovered is that the arrival of grandchildren has brought about a change in me. Oh, life is still full of anticipation and surprises, but everything else pales when placed alongside the grandchildren. My great hope now is to live long enough to experience them as young adults. What a blessing that would be!

Barbara & Pete in 2005

And yet in between these family comings and goings, our lives are graciously touched by many others and we are saddened when they are taken from us. On Saturday we received news of the death of a close friend who had suffered for many years with MS. Although she and her husband had moved to a rural (very rural) part of Georgia, we were able to visit them on a couple of occasions in recent years. It was wonderful to see how Barbara dealt with her affliction with real courage and amazing grace. Watching her reminded me of something Flannery O'Connor once wrote in reference to the many years she suffered from Lupus, the disease that would ultimately take her life:

"I have never been anywhere but sick. In a sense sickness is a place, more instructive than a long trip to Europe, and it's always a place where there's no company, where nobody can follow. Sickness before death is a very appropriate thing and I think those who don't have it miss one of God's mercies." The Habit of Being: Letters of Flannery O'Connor, p. 163.

I don't think it's a coincidence that Barbara and her husband once lived in Milledgeville, GA, the same town where Flannery O'Connor lived most of her too-short life.

We will miss you, Barbara Christian, resquiescat in pace.

Happy Birthdays and more...

Today is my father's 100th birthday. John McCarthy, born July 24, 1909, almost made it all the way but returned to the Father a few years short of the century mark, dying at the age of 95. (My mom, Martha Cavanaugh McCarthy, who would have turned 100 a month ago on June 28, died in 1977.)

Mom and Dad enjoying a beer in the 50s

For some reason, this quiet celebration of my parents' 100th birthdays is a bit of a shock to my system. When you realize your parents would be 100, you know you're getting old. But I'll shove that thought onto a back burner, and focus instead on my dad.

Dad giving a speech in the 1960s

John McCarthy was a remarkable man whose accomplishments could have filled multiple lifetimes. He was so many things: a self-made, self-educated expert in sales, marketing and management; an author of highly acclaimed books on these same subjects; and a successful businessman and entrepreneur in a number of industries.

Dad with Governor John Volpe

He was a member of the "greatest generation" who served his country with distinction in World War II and beyond (he retied as a colonel in the Army Reserve); a teacher who trained and motivated tens of thousands of business people; a public speaker who delivered thousands of speeches to business, civic, governmental and political groups for over 40 years; a public servant who, during his tenure in state government, brought a rare honesty and accountability to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. But more importantly he was a man of deep faith, whose generosity knew no bounds, and a loving husband and father. And throughout that long, distinguished career he had the loving support of two remarkable women: my mom, Martha, and Dad's second wife, Barbara.

We all miss him. Dad and Barbara on their 25th Anniversary

Happy Birthday, Dad. Rest in peace.

Coincidentally, tomorrow, July 25, is the birthday of John McCarthy's eldest great grandchild, Pedro Santa Ana. Young Pedro, a genius among his eight-year-old contemporaries, already shows signs of being made of the same right stuff as his great grandfather. Happy Birthday, Pedro.

Dad (93) and Pedro (1) chillin' in 2002

Catholic Charities backs Obama Health Plan

The head of Catholic Charities USA, Fr. Larry Snyder, has in effect come out in favor of President Obama's health care reform plan. In a letter sent to legislators, Father Snyder, although he does not specifically mention the president's plan, clearly shows support for the reforms it advocates. Unfortunately, he does not mention the pro-abortion elements of the president's plan, despite the fact that Catholic pro life organizations are working hard to get those elements removed. Read more here.

It reminds me of a meeting I had with a diocesan Catholic Charities director a few years ago. She was waxing eloquently about our then US representative and his strong support for comprehensive immigration reform. "We're really fortunate to have him as our congressman," she told me. When I reminded her that he had a 100% pro-abortion voting record, she responded by saying, "Oh, yes, I guess we'll have to talk to him about that."

One step forward, two steps backward...