Birthday and Life

A few weeks ago, on Friday the 13th, I celebrated a birthday, my 80th, and I’m slowly coming to terms with it all. I suppose, from one perspective, it’s just another birthday, one among many. But it’s also a birthday I never really expected to reach. When I was younger, 80 seemed so very, very old and I simply never really considered living that long. And later, as a Naval aviator, I thought my life might be cut short by some unanticipated, catastrophic event in either war or peace. But, surprisingly, I survived, and here I am, 80 years old! And it still seems so very, very old. But I thank God for permitting me to live so long, and ask what He still has in store for me. After all, He didn’t keep me alive just to count the days or aimlessly stumble about, but to do some good. Sometimes, though, the good we’re called to do is involuntary, simply the result of God’s work. We do it but don’t ever, at least in this life, either understand or see its results. So, as Jesus commands us, “Repent, and believe in the Gospel” (Jn 3:15). Yes, we are called to repentance and to faith, and to keep doing as He commands throughout our days. 

Another redeeming value is my heath; it remains reasonably good, at least for now…although I could stand to lose a few pounds. I’m working on that, and still get up at 5 am every day to take my 2-mile fast walk. I also toss about 50 newspapers from driveways to front doors. Neighbors think I do this out of kindness, but in truth I reap the benefit of bending over to pick up each newspaper and give my back and tummy a minor workout. As a result, I have no problem reaching my 10,000 daily steps, although I’m not sure why that’s a desirable goal. Why 10,000, this remarkably round number, when 9,571 or 11,212 are probably just as good? But my little smart watch (Fitbit) tells me this is important, so I acquiesce and work to achieve this goal. Perhaps that’s the reason we need goals, easily defined, grasped, and achievable goals…like 10,000.

Other goals and hopes are, of course, far more important. For example, the American Catholic bishops have instructed Catholics to vote for life, to vote against those advocating abortion. We can only hope the faithful will listen and obey. That’s right, when the Church speaks definitively, when it speaks from its magisterial teaching authority, we are called to obey. The existing culture of death, which currently rules much of our political life, must be resisted by the faithful. You might not “like” every politician who pledges to support a culture of life. You might disagree on some issues, but as one spokesman for the bishops said, "At the forefront of 'life issues' is the right to be born as the right upon which all other 'life issues' rest.” We cannot, then, vote for anyone who supports abortion, the intentional taking of an innocent human life.

I’ve always believed that ultimately abortion will be overcome by prayer and through the work of the Holy Spirit, who alone can change the hearts and minds of the people. But that doesn’t mean we just ignore the political and simply turn it all over to God, while turning away from the evil surrounding us. The trouble is, when you’re surrounded, you really can’t turn away. And, anyway, God likes to use us to fulfill His work in the world. Just don’t fall into the trap of thinking it’s our work, our effort that brings God’s will to fulfillment. As Mary said, just “Do whatever He tells you” (Jn 2:5). And pray for life!

Happy Birthday, Mom

On June 28, 1909 my mother, Martha Catherine Cavanaugh, was born in Fairfield, Connecticut. Mom was the ninth and youngest child in her family. Her parents, Thomas Cavanaugh and Julia (Soier) Cavanaugh, were both born in Ireland back in 1873 and 1866. They both died before I was born, so I never knew them. My paternal grandmother, Ann (Moran) McCarthy, was also born in Ireland. Her husband and my paternal grandfather, John McCarthy, was born in Canada while his parents were visiting relatives in Quebec. So, thanks to my four grandparents, I guess that makes me a full-fledged, second-generation American. 

As for Mom, she was an absolutely wonderful mother, the family glue that held everything together and always kept us moving in the right direction. Quiet, but strong in her beliefs, Mom willingly shared her wisdom with her two sons. My dad offered us lots of wonderful, practical guidance and grounded us politically and to a certain extent, philosophically. But Mom taught us the truly important things. She was the family’s spiritual guide whose love for God and His Church certainly had a lasting effect on me. 

Mom died far too soon at the age of 67 on March 12, 1977. It’s hard to believe she’s been gone 46 years, but even harder to believe she was born 114 years ago, a fact that reminds me of my own advance age. As I said to Diane today, I would happily have given Mom ten years of my life so she could have lived another ten years. And Diane said, “I would have done the same.” Yes, indeed, she was and still is loved. We miss you, Mom. Happy Birthday. Rest is please.

Happy Birthdays

Last evening we celebrated two birthdays. Yesterday was our friend Andy Truax’s birthday and today is Diane’s birthday. Andy is married to Jamie, who’s been Diane’s close friend since they first became best pals in grade school in Pensacola. A few years ago she and Andy moved to Central Florida and now live nearby, so Diane and Jamie get together frequently, usually to shop. 

And so, the four of us decided to celebrate over dinner at Coastal Del Mar, a fairly new seafood restaurant here in The Villages. We had a delightful time and enjoyed the food and the stories. The restaurant even surprised us with free birthday desserts, a wonderful key lime pie. A good time was had by all.

Here’s a photo of Jamie and Andy from last night…cute couple.

And here’s a photo of an even cuter couple…yep, that’s us.

When I first met Diane, as I was making my way through flight training in Pensacola, she was entering her senior year at Florida State and was a few months shy of her 21st birthday. That was a while ago, but I’d better be discreet and not mention the year. I will say, however, that Diane seemed to enjoy the fact that Andy is exactly one day older than she.

Life and Death

Today is my birthday, and at 78 I can no longer deny the fact that I’m gradually turning into…well, an old man. Other than occasional aches and pains, though, I don’t feel very old. And unlike many others, I’m certain I don’t look my age, but then I really don’t spend much time in front of mirrors. I’m still active, and try to make my doctor happy by slimming down to a healthier, more comfortable weight. I don’t run anymore, but my dog, Maddie, and I walk a few miles each day. My brain seems to be a reasonable facsimile of the brain I used as a younger man. Okay, I admit I suffer from occasional short-term memory lapses, but I blame this on the fact that my brain cells must store 78 years of rather intense memories and a tremendous amount of largely useless information, so there’s probably not much room in there for a lot of new stuff. And searching all those cells for memories, new or old, takes some time. I suppose, then, I should be happy given that I’ve been up and about and doing fairly well since leaving the womb on September 13, 1944. But whenever I start to feel so very good about myself, God comes along and points to someone who reminds me of my weaknesses and the amazing strength of others.

This afternoon, while searching through my messy, unorganized bookcases for a particular book, I came across another, a book I bought and read many years ago. I recall spotting it on a shelf in a used bookstore and being intrigued by its unusual title, Noor-un-nisa Inayat Kahn (Madeline). After flipping through its pages, I bought the book for just a couple of dollars. But 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.

Dachau Crematorium 

It was then I discovered that all four women were executed on the day I was born, September 13, 1944. I found this particularly moving since I had actually visited Dachau with my family in the winter of 1951, not that many years after their deaths. Although I was just seven years old at the time, that visit made a lasting impression on me, especially the crematoria. Now, 78 years after their deaths, I find myself celebrating a birthday while at the same time thanking God for Noor Inayat Kahn are her three courageous, freedom-loving 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. How did Jesus put it?

“Truly, truly, I say to you, unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit. He who loves his life loses it, and he who hates his life in this world will keep it for eternal life” [Jn 12:24-25].

When I once related this story to a friend, who lives a rather closed version of Christianity, he stated it was too bad the Kahn woman was a Muslim because she could never be saved. I, of course, disagreed and chastised him for assuming he could tell God to whom He could extend His mercy. Before he could respond I just quoted Jesus:

"Greater love has no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friends” [Jn 15:13].

Though these four women never knew me, I think of myself as one of their friends. I pray for the souls of these wonderful women every day and especially on this day when so many wish me a "Happy Birthday." For them, we pray, it was a happy day of new birth.

Aging Benchmarks

There comes a point in life when birthdays become somewhat less celebratory, and I think I might have reached that point. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy enough that I’ve lived this long, and will certainly welcome the typical low-key celebration Diane and I enjoy on each other’s birthdays. But with aging comes the realization that perhaps I haven’t used all these years as well as I should have. Yet, as I try to avoid dwelling on the past and it’s many errors, I find myself looking instead to the future, as brief as it might be, wondering how I can best use my remaining years. And then the Lord brings me back to reality as I recall His words:

“And which of you by being anxious can add one cubit to his span of life?…Therefore do not be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will be anxious for itself. Let the day’s own trouble be sufficient for the day” [Mt 6:27,34].

Yes, indeed, today, and every other today, bring enough, both good and ill, to keep me busy. 

As you have probably guessed, today is my birthday, specifically, my 77th. Having survived for so long might seem like quite a milestone, unless like me you live in The Villages, the world’s largest retirement community. The homes in our neighborhood, our particular village, for example, were built in early 2004 and Diane and I were among the youngest of those first settlers. As one of our friends said to me the other day, “77? You’re just a kid.” Yes, indeed, in The Villages age becomes a relative concept. Where else can someone my age be considered just a youngster? 

I suppose these thoughts will bounce around in my tired brain for a day or so until they are overwhelmed by what seem to be more pressing needs. In the meantime I’ll meet today with two of our Bible Study groups to celebrate God’s Word in our lives. And then this evening Diane and I will join another deacon and his wife at a local Greek/Italian restaurant where together we will thank God for allowing me to enjoy this gift of life for another year.

Happy Birthday, Jane Austen

Jane Austen

Jane Austen, the more than great English novelist, was born 244 years ago today on December 16, 1775. 

I first encountered Jane Austen's writing when I was assigned to read Pride and Prejudice as a senior in high school. That simply whetted my appetite for more and turned me into a lifelong fan. 

A lot of folks consider her a romantic, but not me. If you want to read 19th-century romance, read a Bronte. I've always considered Jane Austen to be a down to earth storyteller who was somehow able to combine biting social commentary and moral theology, all the while developing some of literature's most interesting characters.

A few years ago, in September 2013, Dear Diane and I made a kind of Austen pilgrimage to England, visiting many Austen-related locations. We had an absolutely wonderful time. In fact we spent a week in a rented cottage in the Hampshire village of Chawton, where Jane spent most of her last years. The cottage is right next door to the Austen house, which is now a well-visited museum (Jane Austen House Museum). And most handily, the cottage was also directly across the street from a charming village pub, The Greyfriar. Unfortunately, since the cottage and its main house, a very old home called "Clinkers", were sold not long ago, the cottage is no longer available as a rental. 

The Austen House in Chawton (2013)

The Greyfriar, dogs and children welcome

Dear Diane and I in the garden of the Austen House

We also visited Jane's tomb in Winchester Cathedral and spent time in Steventon, another small Hampshire village where Jane spent the first decades of her life. Her father, Rev. George Austen, was the pastor of St. Nicholas Church, the Anglican church in Steventon.

Winchester Cathedral

St. Nicholas Church, Steventon

We then drove to Lyme Regis, a near perfect coastal town that reminded me of Cape Cod villages back in the 1950s. Austen also lived there briefly and used it for some key scenes in her novel, Persuasion. 

A Blustery Day in Lyme Regis

We also visited the old naval port of Portsmouth, a city that makes an appearance in Austen's novel, Mansfield Park. We even stayed several days in Kent and saw the very large house inherited by one of Jane Austen's brothers, a home she occasionally visited. 

Admiral Nelson's Cabin: HMS Victory

Finally, we spent a wonderful weekend (except for the rain) at a lovely Bed and Breakfast in Bath (The Bath House), another city where Austen lived for a time and which she used as a setting in several of her novels (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion). When in Bath the Jane Austen Centre, another well-managed Austen museum, is also worth a visit.

Diane and friend at Bath's Jane Austen Centre

The Unique Architecture of Bath

Our trip concluded with five days in London where we rented a flat about halfway between Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus. One thing we discovered: rather than staying in hotels, it's far less expensive and much more enjoyable to rent cottages and flats. And because they usually come equipped with a washer and dryer, we were able to pack more lightly.

Leaving London, we returned to the USA via a 14-day transatlantic cruise aboard the Celebrity Infinity. It was a long, but truly delightful vacation...all thanks to Jane Austen.

Happy Birthday, Jane.

Happy Birthday to Me

Early this morning, after thanking God for another day, Maddie and I both wolfed down our usual breakfasts: hers consisting of kibble and a few small pieces of cooked chicken breast; mine a bowlful of Cheerios and strawberries, accompanied by lots of coffee.

After breakfast I kissed Diane goodbye and joined Maddie on her morning walk. When we returned I gave Maddie a treat (see photo); afterwards she sat beside me in my chair while Diane and I watched the local and national news. Saddened by the strange stories the networks choose to air as the most important, I turned off the TV, glanced briefly through the morning newspaper, and then read one of Saki's short stories.

This is not my typical morning routine, but today, thanks to Irma, our parish church has no electrical power. Life, then,  has become much slower. It's also my birthday, so I have an additional excuse to take it easy.

At a little after 10 a.m. I filled my coffee cup once again, entered my little den, and turned on the laptop to check my email. It boots up directly to the Google search page, and what do I see? Google wishing me a Happy Birthday with this animated GIF file.

Now, I can't speak for everyone, but I find it more than a little disconcerting that Google apparently knows so much about me. And they're not alone. On my birthday I usually receive cards and phone calls from family and some close friends. These are always welcome, but I also receive quite a few birthday greetings from those I don't know. The dealership from whom I bought my last car sent a card. So did one of the banks that keeps track of my limited funds. I even received a card from a local funeral home, an organization that would probably prefer that I not celebrate another birthday. And this doesn't include all the online email cards from other companies and organizations who believe that a birthday card will make me love and patronize them. In truth, I'd be far happier if their goods and services just cost less.

I find it all a bit weird, and can see why some folks go, as they say, "off-grid." It seems that many of our largest tech firms are driven by a compulsion to enter into every aspect of our lives. Am I a wee bit paranoid if I suggest that their ultimate goal is control, that they consider our lives open to manipulation? And this just because Google wishes me a Happy Birthday? Maybe. But one thing is certain, these companies have extraordinary power over the minds and hearts of those who rely on them completely for information and news about our world. Mildly scary stuff.

But for now I intend to forget about all the world's weirdness and just enjoy the day. Diane and I are going to celebrate my 73rd at a local restaurant here in The Villages. Some friends are joining us and because the restaurant has outdoor "dog-friendly" seating, Maddie gets to take part in the festivities. Woof, woof.

Back to Normal...Not!

The past few days have been a sort of revelation for me. For once I wasn't running around doing all those things I normally do, because there was no place to do them. Our parish offices were closed, and all parish activities came to a halt as we prepared for, lived through, and cleaned up after Hurricane Irma.

All the meetings I usually attend have been cancelled. Hardly anyone called me about parish or related issues. And the only non-spam emails I received were from family and friends concerned about our well-being. I'll assist at Mass tomorrow morning, but our usual Wednesday Bible Study sessions have both been cancelled, as has our monthly clergy meeting. [Late note: The church is still without power and will, therefore, be closed all day Wednesday.]

Diane and I had also planned to take a day off from our normal Thursday soup kitchen work. A few weeks ago Diane asked her assistant cook to run the show one Thursday each month, thus giving the two of us and our aging bodies an occasional needed rest. This means I won't even have soup kitchen to wear me out this week. I try to keep Friday unencumbered and often use the day to catch up on the work I ignored during the week, Now I'll be idle that day as well.

A few friends have already remarked that it's been quite some time since I posted this much on my blog. Usually I just don't have the time, or at the end of the day I'm simply too tired to sit down and post these trivial thoughts. I admit, I'm enjoying the time off, but am a bit concerned I won't want to crank up the activity level when next week rolls around. There's also the guilt factor, that I should be doing something meaningful and worthwhile. But I've suppressed that by attributing my idleness to an unplanned week-long celebration of my birthday. After all, as I told Diane this morning, "It's not every year I turn 73." And I thank God for that because 73 sounds so very old.

Our Groomer's Vehicles

But some things have returned to normal. Our dog groomer, a nice woman named Leah, arrived this afternoon and parked her pick-up and grooming trailer in front of the house. Her business, "Bark, Bath and Beyond," is wonderful because she comes to us, freeing us from having to drive Maddie to a groomer. Maddie's breed, the Bichon Frise, must be groomed because her hair never stops growing and the poor dog would eventually disappear under a blanket of white, curly hair.

Maddie, after her grooming - Looking Good!

Poor Maddie is not very fond of Leah and considers these sessions akin to torture. Our little dog doesn't even like to be brushed, so I can imagine how she resists all that Leah must do. Whenever Leah arrives at our door, and Maddie sees who has arrived, the little thing make a beeline to another part of the house.

Dear Diane Sweeping Up

As you can see by the first photo above, our palms all survived, as did our large oaks out back. Along with most of our neighbors, I spent the morning raking and bagging, so everything will look pretty and inviting once again. Even Diane, after an appointment at the hair dresser and a session with the physical therapist, helped out.

I'm starting to like this new normal. Perhaps I'll cut back, at least a little, on my work and spend more time with Diane  enjoying God's gifts. 

My Birthday Hurricanes

Having just experienced hurricane Irma up close and personal, I recall my father telling me about another hurricane, one that rolled through New England as I was born.

My birthday is this coming Wednesday, September 13, and during this same week, back in 1944, a large hurricane roared up the Atlantic coast from North Carolina to Canada. They didn't name hurricanes back then but this particular storm became known as "The 1944 Great Atlantic Hurricane."

This storm reached its peak on my birthday when it recorded 145 mph winds, making it a Category 4 storm by today's standards. A few days later it dumped a record 10.7 inches of rain on the city in which I was born, Bridgeport, Connecticut. My father said little about the experience, only complaining that the storm had made things very difficult. I don't think he blamed me for the inconvenience...

Great Atlantic Hurricane Track (September 1944) 

Being born during a major hurricane is a claim to fame of sorts, but the 1944 storm wasn't the last to visit me on my birthday. I recall another massive hurricane that stopped by to wish me well back in September 1960, just as I was celebrating my 16th birthday. Hurricane Donna made its way from Florida to New England, and on September 12 roared right by Larchmont, New York, our town on Long Island Sound. 

The parallels between these two storms are interesting, but the parallels between Donna and Irma are even more remarkable. Although 57 years apart, both storms struck the mainland USA in the vicinity of Marathon, Florida on September 10 with winds of 130 mph. And both went on to ravage the state of Florida. The biggest difference between the two relates to their respective post-Florida tracks. Irma ceased being a hurricane as she made her way into northern Florida. Donna, however, moved up the state and into the Atlantic, where she regained strength and then ravaged the Atlantic coast all the way to New England. Like her 1944 predecessor she too had maximum winds of 145 mph, making her a Category 4.

Hurricane Donna's Track (September 1960)

Irma, of course, began as a much more violent storm, a Category 5 with sustained 185 mph winds. It was these winds that devastated so many islands in the Caribbean.

Hurricane Irma's Track (September 2017)

Fortunately, at least for us in Florida, Irma could not maintain this strength as she made her way through the western Caribbean to south Florida. And her over-land track after coming ashore allowed her to weaken even more. Her visit here was no picnic, but it could have been much worse. I suppose she could have stuck around and interfered with Wednesday's celebration.

Baptism of Amelia Ann

Yesterday I baptized a beautiful little girl whose name is Amelia Ann. I really love baptisms even though I don't get to preside at very many these days. 

The congregation of our previous parish on Cape Cod included many young families, so baptisms were fairly common. But here in The Villages, certainly Florida's largest retirement community and perhaps the largest in the world, baptisms are understandably rather rare. Fortunately, this large community of seniors (well over 100,000 residents) demands services of every sort. This very practical need has attracted an increasing number of young people, including families with children, who have settled in the communities surrounding The Villages. And so we are seeing a gradual increase in the number of baptisms, something that makes me happy...very happy.

Back to Amelia Ann...

She is eight months old, very bright, and seemingly quite sure of what she likes and dislikes. I suspect she'll be a handful, but what child isn't? Amelia was also very interested in everything I did as the rite progressed. She was very willing to be anointed with both the Oil of Salvation and Sacred Chrism, and, surprisingly, didn't object to the actual baptism. She displayed only a mild surprise when I poured water over her pretty head three times. But she never once cried or showed any sign of real displeasure. All things considered, Amelia was one of those perfect baptismal babies who actually seem to enjoy what's happening.

For years now, whenever I preside at a baptism, I give the child a little gift. I use the child's birthdate and baptismal date and convert each to a scriptural chapter and verse. For example, Amelia Ann was born on December 6 (12:6) and baptized on August 12 (8:12). Then, using these chapter/verse combinations, I go through the entire Bible and select no more than ten verses that seem particularly appropriate. Once I've chosen the verses I create a PowerPoint slide with a scriptural background and enter the verses. I then print the finished product (8x10) on glossy photo paper, place it in a nice frame, and give it to the family as a gift. The entire process takes only about an hour and it's always very well received. I've included an example below; in fact it's the one I made for Amelia Ann and her parents.

Anyway, it's a neat thing to make for a child. I also made these -- with just birthday verses -- for teenagers when I taught pre-confirmation catechesis in my previous parish. It was my birthday gift to the kids who were in my class. Everyone received one, even those whose birthdays fell during the summer months. I found it to be a fairly effective way to get them to open their Bibles and read. I think it would also be a nice gift from a parent or grandparent.

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.

Happy Birthday, Big Brother

Jeff (missing tooth) and Yours Truly, c. 1947

My big brother and only sibling, Jefferson Brian McCarthy, died in January 2010, a little over six years ago. He was born in Bridgeport, Connecticut on February 8, 1941, so today would have been Jeff's 75th birthday. A day doesn't go by when I don't think of him, and miss his presence in my life.

Growing up together, but separated by four years, we probably had the typical big brother-little brother relationship. We fought and wrestled and played together, and shared everything. And I could always count on Jeff to be the protective big brother when I needed reinforcements. Our personalities, though, were as different as day and night, and yet we seemed not to notice or be bothered by the differences. He was by far the smarter, always among the top students in his class, always willing to do the extra work needed to achieve the highest grades and win the prizes and awards. I, on the other hand, found that my interests didn't always coincide with the subjects taught in school, and would spend more time on that which aroused my curiosity. I did what was necessary to earn acceptable grades -- high enough to prevent parental interference -- but I was never a candidate for valedictorian. I suppose our mother understood us best. She once said, "Jeff's the smart one, who wants to please others; but Dana's the clever one who wants to please himself." I'm still not sure if that was a compliment or a criticism.

Our dad, John McCarthy, and Jeff at West Point on graduation day - June 1962

Dana (me), our Mom, and Jeff - Summer 1963 at home in Chatham on Cape Cod

Jeff went to West Point, graduating in 1962, and after a year at Georgetown University, I went to Annapolis, graduating in 1967. Because my grandfather and father both served in the Army, I suppose I was a bit of a black sheep who broke with tradition. But Jeff and I never saw it that way and were proud of each other's service. Our only serious disagreement came on the day of the Army-Navy game.

Jeff's sudden death from heart failure shortly before his 69th birthday came as a shock to me, especially since I'd always assumed he'd outlive me. I know that sounds strange since Jeff was almost four years older, but to me he'd always seemed healthier, at least until his last few years when his health began to deteriorate. Although his decline during those final years was evident, I didn't realize how ill he was. I suppose that's not uncommon: the failure to recognize and accept that one we love is near death. Based on some of our last conversations, I suspect Jeff knew he was approaching the end of his life. I just didn't realize it until later, when I played those conversations back in my mind. 

If I learned anything from Jeff's death it's that we should treasure every moment we have with those we love. Indeed, as Pope Francis is fond of reminding us, we should treasure every person we encounter, every child of God, and recognize the presence of Jesus Christ within them. That's a hard lesson to learn and put into practice.

Rest in peace, big brother, I'll see you again soon enough.

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 Birthday, Erin

Today is also the birthday of our eldest child, Erin. I know I'm not supposed to reveal a woman's age, so I'll just say that today she has finally reached Jack Benny's oft-professed age. (You 'll have to be, at the very least, pushing 60 to figure that one out.) Watching my children age has been a bit traumatic since it only highlights how much older I have become. This aging thing has sort of crept up on me unannounced. Of course, one wonderful side effect is the gift of grandchildren, and Erin and her husband, Airton, have produced four beautiful little people for us to spoil. Thank you, daughter, and happy birthday!

Our four children in 1978: Siobhan, Brendan, Erin & Ethan
(They haven't changed a bit in 32 years)