Mother's Day

I've always appreciated the final verses of the Book of Proverbs, words that define the perfect wife and mother. And so, on this Mother's Day, I salute my late Mom, Martha McCarthy, and my Wife, Diane McCarthy, for fulfilling these prophetic words:

She is clothed with strength and dignity, and laughs at the days to come. She opens her mouth in wisdom; kindly instruction is on her tongue. She watches over the affairs of her household, and does not eat the bread of idleness. Her children rise up and call her blessed; her husband, too, praises her: Many are the women of proven worth, but you have excelled them all. Charm is deceptive and beauty fleeting; the woman who fears the LORD is to be praised. Acclaim her for the work of her hands, and let her deeds praise her at the city gates. (Proverbs 31:25-31)

Thank you, Mom, for being you. And thank you, Diane, for always caring for me. Now it's my turn.

Pro-Abortion Sadness

A few moments ago, I happened across a photo on Twitter. It shows a family protesting the Supreme Court’s recent decision to overturn Roe v. Wade. I’ve included the photo below and hesitate to say much about it, since the sign carried by the mother and the expressions on the faces of her husband and three children really say it all. 

My only concern is what these beautiful children will think of their parents when they are old enough to understand exactly what their mom was thinking when she made that sign. This family and so many others like them need our prayers. 

Today also happens to be my mother's birthday. Martha Catherine (Cavanaugh) McCarthy was born 113 years ago on June 28, 1909. Mom died on March 12, 1977. I thank her for giving birth to me, for trying to raise me well in spite of my rebellious nature, for teaching me so many good and wondrous things, for the sacrifices she made for our family, and for the love she showered on me and my brother, Jeff. I know she is now with God and ask for her intercession for Diane and me and for our family. Happy Birthday, Mom!

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. 

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."

It's All Interconnected

I have always loved coincidences, largely because I don't believe in them, and enjoy putting their seemingly disparate pieces together, showing how interconnected they all are. I actually believe that everything is a part of God's plan, that everything is connected. Nothing is mere coincidence. I don't mean to say that God plans all the evil in the world -- not at all. No, evil is there, all around us, because we too often welcome it, because we choose it. It came into the world when our first parents chose it and it's still hanging out with us. But God does make use of it, and to demonstrate His power, turns it into good. As St. Paul reminds us:  "We know that all things work for good for those who love God, who are called according to His purpose" [Rom 8:28]. Did you get that -- "all things" and "according to His purpose"? That's why I don't believe in coincidences.

In my last post I mentioned how, at least as they relate to my life, the Great Atlantic Hurricane of 1944, Hurricane Donna of 1960, and Hurricane Irma of recent fame are interconnected. All three came into prominence during the week of my birthday, September 13. In my post I focused only on the hurricanes themselves, but there was another interesting connection that tied me to that 1944 Great Hurricane, one that I had read about years ago, but had forgotten.

73 years ago, as that hurricane made its way up to New England, it took the lives of well over 300 people, most of them lost at sea. The largest number of these were the crew of a United States Somers-class destroyer, USS WARRINGTON (DD-383). The ship had spent much of the war serving in the Pacific and had just completed repairs in both New York and Norfolk. She was steaming south en route to Trinidad when she encountered the hurricane near the Bahamas. The high seas led to water pouring into the vents to her engineering spaces which ultimately shut down her propulsion system and resulted in her sinking. Of the 321 men aboard, only 73 were rescued. She sank on the very day of my birth, September 13, 1944. Two days later that same hurricane poured over 10 inches of rain onto St. Vincent's Hospital in Bridgeport, Connecticut, the city where my mother gave birth to me, her second son.

USS WARRINGTON (DD-383) in 1938

I was born into an all-Army family. My grandfather served in the Spanish American War and the Boxer Rebellion, and my father served in World War Two. My older brother graduated from West Point in 1962 and served in Vietnam. The only person in our family who spent time in the Navy was an uncle, my mother's half-brother, who served as a seaman on a destroyer during World War One. I didn't know Uncle Bill all that well, but enjoyed my few conversations with him during my early teens. He died in 1959 when I was only 15. Anyway, on September 13, 1944 no one in our family would have anticipated that I would graduate from the U. S. Naval Academy in 1967 and eventually retire as a Captain in the U. S. Naval Reserve. But I did. All part of God's plan.

Commander Lewis Warrington

Here's another non-coincidental connection. The USS WARRINGTON was named for Lewis Warrington (1782-1851) a naval officer who fought the Barbary Pirates in the Mediterranean and later the British during the War of 1812. He was quite the hero during the latter war. Warrington went on to serve as temporary Secretary of the Navy and Chief of the Navy's Bureau of Ordnance. Now, that's all wonderful, but Warrington is also the name of a district of Pensacola, Florida, the neighborhood right outside the main gate to the Naval Air Station. It was, of course, named for Lewis Warrington. Where was my first assignment immediately after graduation from the Academy? To Pensacola where I would spend the next 16 months learning to fly naval aircraft. I also met Dear Diane in Pensacola where she had lived most of her young life. We were married at the NAS Chapel exactly 186 years after Lewis Warrington's birth.

Martha (Cavanaugh) McCarthy, RN

One more connection...The place so mistreated by the hurricane at the time of my birth, St. Vincent's Hospital, was also the hospital where my mother earned her RN and worked as a nurse. It was, of course, named for St. Vincent de Paul, the 17th-century French priest who devoted his life to serving the poor. Sixty years later, when we moved to Florida in 2004, to what parish was I assigned? St. Vincent de Paul Parish in Wildwood, Florida.

Now do you see why I don't believe in coincidence? I'd much rather believe in God, who I am convinced enjoys making all these wonderful connections in our lives.

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...

Happy Birthday, Mom

Mom

Today is my mother's birthday. The daughter of Irish immigrants, Martha Catherine (Cavanaugh) McCarthy was born 107 years ago on June 28, 1909 in Bridgeport, Connecticut. She died on March 12, 1977 at the age of 67.

Interestingly, on Mom's birth certificate her name was entered simply as Martha Cavanaugh, with no middle name; and yet on her baptismal certificate she was given the name Catherine Martha Cavanaugh. Since she was always called Martha, I had assumed this was her first name and Catherine was her middle name. Now I'm not so sure.

Thinking about my mom today brought to mind others in her family: her sisters Margaret, Rose, Mae, and Lu, and her brother, Bill. These weren't Mom's only siblings, but the others died young, long before I was born; and so I never knew them. It also reminded me that I know so little about my ancestors. 

Martha & John McCarthy-1930s

I never knew my maternal grandparents. Mom's mother, Julia, died when Mom was still a young girl of about 10, and her father, Thomas Cavanaugh, died within a few years of my folks' marriage in 1935, years before my birth in 1944. I suspect I would have liked my grandfather because my father thought highly of him and always spoke kindly of him. I know almost nothing about my grandmother, since my Mom rarely mentioned her and my father never knew her. But her name is also the source of some confusion. On Mom's baptismal certificate, my grandmother's maiden name is listed as "Julia Soye", which my mother always claimed was Scottish. But on Mom's birth certificate, the last name is spelled "Soier", which to me seems rather French. Which is correct? I have no idea.

According to that same birth certificate, both of my grandparents were born in Ireland, but no city or county is given, just the country. Perhaps my son, Ethan, who has been doing a bit of genealogical digging can uncover some of the hidden Irish roots of our family tree.

Mom - RN

Mom was the youngest in her large family. According to Mom's birth certificate, her mother had nine children, although I can account for only eight. She had several children from a previous marriage that ended with her first husband's death. His last name was Dorley, but I know nothing more about him. My grandmother then married Thomas Cavanaugh, seven years her junior, with whom she had several more children, Mom being the last. Like many families of that era, the death of a spouse and the need to remarry created stepmothers, stepfathers, half-brothers, and half-sisters, all thrown together into a complex family mix. If my recollection is correct, this "second family" was all girls, while the first included both girls and boys. I could have the numbers wrong, though, since Mom seldom differentiated between sisters and half-sisters and infant death was far more prevalent in those days. Indeed, I'm certain that one of the boys in that first family, whose name I never knew, died in infancy. The other boy, my uncle, Bill Dorley, was a Navy veteran of World War One and a life-long bachelor. Uncle Bill was quite the character, and as a youngster I was especially impressed by his 1954 Cadillac Eldorado convertible. It's remarkable, isn't it? -- the things we remember. I was quite fond of this uncle of mine and was saddened when he died in 1959.

After my grandmother's untimely death, my grandfather, Tom Cavanaugh, remarried. All in the family agreed that this second wife, Bridey, was a less than pleasant stepmother. I can recall my father speaking about her only guardedly when my brother and I were present. I got the impression that she was very unkind to my mother who was still quite young when her father married Bridey. I'm pretty certain that as a young boy I met her at least once, but the meeting was apparently unremarkable; however I do remember accompanying my parents to her funeral in Bridgeport.

Mom and her sister, Edna (c. 1920)

Mom's closest sibling was her sister, Edna, who died while still in her early teens. As I recall, the cause of death was rheumatic fever (perhaps scarlet fever) but I might well be wrong. The two girls, however, were very close and Edna's death affected Mom deeply. The above photo was taken not too long before Edna became ill. Mom once told me that her sister's illness influenced her decision to become a nurse. And it was during her time as a nurse that Mom met Dad. The rest is history...family history.

Mom continues to speak to me, to guide me even now forty years after her death. T. S. Eliot said it pretty well...

And what the dead had no speech for, when living,
They can tell you, being dead: the communication
Of the dead is tongued with fire beyond the language of the living.

Happy Birthday, Mom. Thank you for your goodness and for all you did for me and Diane. We love you and miss you.

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. 

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...