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THE MUSIC MAKERS

I ventured out into the storm last night and headed to Carnegie for Stage 62's production of SWEENEY TODD. Parking is a challenge there and I grabbed my umbrella for a five block walk to the theater...just as I began to open it the lightning and thunder made me rethink my evening...and I walked in the rain. The auditorium was filling up as I arrived, and I sat back for what turned out to be a great evening of musical theater. I have several friends who were involved in the show, directing, conducting the surprisingly large orchestra, playing an instrument or in the cast. The show got great reviews and I understand why. I was amazed at the acting and vocal talent...as good as I've seen anywhere. A heck of a lot of bang for twelve bucks.

Since I had a real aching to "get off the farm" last night, I soaked in a lot more than the desperately needed rain. Three of the guys I knew who were involved with the show have also sung or continue to sing with  our men's choir. All three also teach music, direct the marching band or choral groups. The director is a multi talented young guy who makes the high school plays and players really come to life. Music is a big part of their lives.

I've sung with church choirs since I was ten years old...with my "group voice", and played the organ ( a great imposter ) for years since the eighth grade. The only acting I ever did was when  I had to lip-sink a Louis Prima routine...even though I didn't even know who he was as I danced around to " I've grown accustomed to her face", or when I was hauled off in a van from my all boys high school to a girls reform school to be in a one act play.

I'm in awe of the people who surround themselves with music...from a concert pianist to my beloved nephew who can dance and sing his way into your heart, to the people who teach little kids to sing, to the people who spend long hours on hot days rehearsing and rehearsing. I hope they know that wanna-be's like me truly appreciate the beauty and talent that they create...out of thin air. To all of you...your audience is deeply grateful.

DOING NOTHING

So we have the most unpopular congress in history. The last poll I saw had them at a seven percent approval rating...which is pretty much the same as Satan's. Not that I can prove that last one, but after all he does have a cute tail. When Mitch McConnell announced that he would lead his party with the single goal of making Barrack Obama a one term president, the writing was on the wall....almost four years ago. The right wing of the Republican party quickly rallied around that goal, and there's no way that their constant filibusters were good for this country. When they fought to the very last minute to stop the country from paying it's bills, they caused considerable damage to the whole nation.

The Republican party that my family belonged to for most of our lives is long gone. When I was younger I voted for both democrats and republicans, making my choice according to their policies and their records, and even today I try to vote for the best candidate, not for the party. While there are certainly some whacko democrats, the republican party is loaded with them. People like Michelle Bachmann...Christine O'Donnell ( "I am not a witch")...Rick Santorum..John Boener...Dick Cheney...Rumsfiled...Wolfowitz...Pearl...

Governor Corbett....Governor Ultra-sound.

Rick Perry...(would send troops back to Iraq)...Sarah Palin (who thought Iraq was responsible for 9-11). I'm sure I'm missing some.

Last night there was a ray of hope with the tax bill...followed by a news

segment about Corbett cutting the General Assistance program that gives sick people about 200.00 a month while they're temporarily unable to work because of an injury...or waiting for total disability payments. His gas drilling czar who can overturn any communities laws about drilling comes from the oil industry.

I thought congress represented us? I guess part of the problem is that we don't tell them what we want and what we don't want. Until we find our voice and take the five minutes to call our "representative" they'll just continue to do what's best for THEM not for US. We all think that our one voice doesn't matter, but if everyone who's reading this now would call, write, or send an email to their own representative....someone would notice...and maybe something would change. How's about banning assault rifles...one call versus the NRA...( the MOST powerful lobby in Congress)...might be ignored...

hundreds and thousands might be another story. Saint Francis said that it's better to light one little candle that to simply curse the darkness. Light your candle.

TEACHING A BULLY A LESSON

Every picture I have of our neighborhood kids growing up shows Beecher Kirby with a rope hanging from his waste. I guess he qualified as a bully back then...and he was never really a part of our little group...I guess because Hop Scotch and plays about miracles and dwarfs just didn't interest him very much. Part of me thought he was kinda cool, since he had a convertible and an air compressor.( My friend Susan and I had plans to one day build a blimp that we could ride in.) Most of the time Beecher was just mean and annoying however, and even though he hung out with the older guys like Tommy whom I've mentioned before (the one who would crawl out of his bedroom window and sit on the roof in his underpants smoking cigarettes), and Mike Rome who drove a corvette and was the handsomest guy I'd ever seen up to that point, Beecher picked on us. One day when the girls and I had been pushed to the point of a near nervous breakdown  by him repeatedly squirting away our hop scotch game with a hose, we decided to beat him up.

Nancy and Loretta  who were twins, ten year olds who were usually nice little girls and frequent extras in one of our garage extravaganzas, suggested that we form a circle around Beecher and on the count of three we'd all charge him and teach him a lesson. First we all sat around chewing on blades of grass and acting nonchalant until one of the twins said the secret word and we all formed a very menacing circle....(well, as menacing a circle as we could muster with about six ten year old girls, me, and my friend Bill who might have been a turncoat all along). A faintly whispered one two three, and wham! Into the circle I leaped....alone. The girls and the turncoat all ran away screaming and Beecher rolled me around a few times and went home laughing. So much for his "lesson". I think I learned one.

Having been abandoned by all of my cohorts, I of course had to punish them.

I immediately canceled the afternoon rehearsals for " The Miracle of Our Lady of Fatima", and announced that a new Blessed Mother would be replacing Susan. To this day...fifty years later, she still insists that I coveted that role from the very beginning, and that the failed coup against Beecher was nothing more than a smokescreen. I still beg to differ.

I don't know whatever became of Beecher. I still imagine that he goes to drive- ins with wild looking girls in his convertible and smells like an ash tray.

His name is so unusual that I worry a little bit that he'll read something like this and track me down and try to beat me up all over again. This time I'm going to add my mother and cousins Eleanor and Judy to the circle..THEN we'll see what happens to Beecher Kirby.

PUNISHING THE WRONG PEOPLE

I can't seem to stop comparing the Penn State abuse scandal to the pedophilia horrors that plagued and continue to plague my Catholic Church.

Once again, young boys were victimized by someone they knew and trusted, and once again the perpetrator was the Goliath of a huge and intimidating organization. While the Church had a twisted pattern of simply transferring the guilty person to a new venue, Jerry Sandusky was left to pursue his prey until someone finally took action and the criminal activity was stopped. When some of the victims in the church scandal began to speak...many weren't believed, and many others never saw their perpetrators punished, as the evil moved to fresh hunting grounds.

When Cardinal Law in Boston had exhausted his options after years and years of inaction involving priests in his jurisdiction, he was sent to a new cushy assignment in Rome. At least everyone involved at Penn State is likely to suffer the consequences of his or her inaction. The similarities to the Catholic Church stop there.

I understand the fines...which are probably about what a year of football revenues amount to, and I understand the depth of the investigation and fair trial of anyone who was complicit, but ending the careers of many of the team members seems like punishing the congregation in the pews for what their priest did to the kids. The attempt to change history by erasing past victories seems a little like annulling any marriages or other sacraments performed while Father X was running the parish. Shaming the football team for what the coaches did or didn't do would be like making the Rosary Society and the Knights of Columbus wear scarlet letters to Mass.

Punish the culprits...take the pound of flesh, but remember not to give the whole class detention because little Joey didn't finish his seatwork. The good parishioners and priests who were also tainted by scandals all over the world will suffer enough for sins they didn't commit, and Penn State students and alumni have already had their college experience tarnished. There doesn't seem to be much mercy being dolled out for the innocent bystanders at State College this week.

HURTING KIDS AGAIN

    I don't really know doots about sports...maybe that was evident the day my sister in law and niece asked me to drop them off for a Pirates game and I pulled up to the wrong stadium...relieved that there was so little traffic.  I still remember the way they both looked at me...in spite of the fact that I knew how much they loved me.  I'd rather go to another Wayne Newton concert than sit freezing at a football game or roasting at a baseball game.  My other half...Mr Big Shot was riding to a sports event in Philadelphia with clients when he had to whisper to me on his cell phone..."quick...what sport do the Lakers play...I'm on my way to a game..". That one was easy...I told him I was pretty sure that it was football.

   For the life of me I can't understand the punishment for Penn State handed down this morning.  These guys on the football team didn't do anything wrong...did they?  There are certainly guilty people here...and quite a few of them...and they ought to be punished for sure.  Anybody who hurts a kid, and anyone who knows about it and doesn't do anything about it ought to be locked up.  These kids who play football at Penn State are being punished...hurt...for sins they neither committed nor had any knowledge of.  This would be a whole different issue if the team members had been involved in the crimes...but they were not.  Every one who loves Penn State...and football is also being made to suffer...and even though I'm not at all interested in the sport, and have no ties to Penn State...(HAIL TO DUQUESNE)....I think this punishment is misdirected.  It would make much more sense to me to keep digging deeper into any cowardly adult who stood by while kids were being hurt, but hurting a whole lot more kids makes no sense at all.

HEARTBREAK IN COLORADO

Once again I have my morning coffee with tears in my eyes. It's a rainy and foggy morning, and the "Breaking News" is once again from Colorado. Such a gorgeous state where even the official flower the "Columbine" no longer has the same meaning. For the next few days the news will be of funerals, broken lives and dreams, and questions about motives and warnings. "The Dark Knight Rises" has been the talk of the town lately, having been filmed in our city, and hyped all over the country with it's midnight premiers. Now just as that beautiful little state flower has had it's innocent image tarnished, the movie will also forever be tainted with tragedy.

Lots of us have been anxious to see the film...tempted to head out for a midnight adventure that is such a fun part of the magic of movies, and such a nice escape from most nights with the DVR or Netflix. We'll still go to the movies, critique the story, and point out the landmarks we grew up with, and probably try unsuccessfully to avoid thinking about what happened to a similar group of moviegoers in Colorado.

It's going to be a steamy day here in Pittsburgh, too humid to do much in the garden, too depressing to keep watching the news, and too familiar to be all that shaken by another mass murder. My gentle and incredibly strong and dedicated neighbor at the cottage works with severely troubled kids in Erie. Since we're both therapists by trade, we seem to be able to sense when one of us has had a rough day. Every so often we'll sit together by the lake and just support one another without a lot of words...just a shared understanding of what he calls the wretchedness that is so prevalent in our world. We ran into each other the day after 9/11, and simply exchanged hugs...no words at all that day. I'll see him later this afternoon, and our moods will mirror one another again I'm sure.

Lives were changed in Colorado forever last night. The tears shed there will flow like a soaking rain, and the rest of us will mourn as well. If we were indeed all islands, we'd surely escape the overshadowing grief of days like today, but indeed we are not. I read once where someone asked a question about wars....about whose side God was on...and the reply was that God is on the side of those who suffer...they'll need God in Colorado.

There's a certain wonderful innocence about heading out for a midnight premier of an exciting new movie. Seeing that shattered and lost in a matter of minutes is such a demoralizing experience. ...heartbreaking for every one of us...and all too familiar.

SWITCHING SIDES

Since I've always been a pretty liberal guy, and concerned about social justice and world peace, I've decided that maybe I should continue to evolve and make some changes. I'm thinking of voting Republican in the Fall. The more I listen to certain high profile Republicans, the more I'm convinced that they have a point. Maybe Michelle Bachman has a point about investigating congress...maybe they do have some un American ties to terrorists, especially if they have close connections to Hillary Clinton.

Glen Beck makes a lot of sense lately too...his theories about anti American activity seem more and more plausible...and people like Rush and Bill O'Reilly and Sean Hannity seem to know a lot more than I do. The more I see my new party wanting to let wealthy people get big tax breaks the more I understand than when they have more money they'll probably use it to make new jobs for people...they won't just hang on to it or invest it to make more.

Our own Rick Santorum made me think twice about a lot of things too. Maybe women ought to stay home and have babies instead of working, and realize that sex is really meant to have kids. The Republican party also wants to stop women from terminating pregnancies..and the best way to do that is probably to force them to undergo a lot of tests and jump through some pretty tough hoops. Using birth control really does go against nature when you think about it.

Mitt Romney also wants to keep gay people out of the military, and would bring back Don't Ask Don't Tell...which seemed to work just fine before. He's also never going to let gay people get married...which is in the Bible after all. When the Boy Scout recently re-affirmed their no gay scouts or counselor policy, I felt bad for my neighbor who was an Eagle Scout and also gay.... he feels awful about this, but I can still love the sinner and hate the sin.

I saw Dick Cheney the other day when he was trying to stop the cuts to the military budget, and all of a sudden, I started to really like him. He still says the Iraq war was worth the money and the blood, and Donald Rumsfield feels the same way, and they aren't exactly stupid people.

All in all, if Donald Trump is on to something about Obama not being an American, and he's also a smart Republican, I wouldn't be surprised if he's right. People tell me that social security is "socialism"...but that doesn't make sense. Rick Santorum always wanted to tie it in with the stock market...and I wonder how much more I'd be getting if he would have been able to do that? I also don't remember President Bush using up any "surplus".  Obama was the one who started all the financial problems as I remember. The economy was fine when George Bush left office...I think.

All in all it seems time to end this blog. I'm feeling a little sick to my stomach and I'll just bet that some of you are too. Tongue in cheek is one thing, but the above nonsense is really what I hear from far too many people. Woof has been reading over my shoulder this morning....and she suddenly looks as if she REALLY has to go out.

OBSESSIVE COMPULSIVE

BLUEBERRIES

There's something kinda wonderful about OCD. One of us has it here and it isn't me and it isn't Woof.   My suggestion that he check and see if the blueberries were about ready to be pickedresulted in a harvest of about ten million berries.  It reminded me of the afternoon at the cottage when he borrowed a power washer to clean the cement deck. About eight hours later he had cleaned not only the deck, but the cement walls, the outdoor furniture, the landing, and I swear a little part of the neighbor's rock garden. Give him a vacuum cleaner and he'll really go to town...out the kitchen door...down the steps, out the sidewalk, back to the porch, a quick once over...until either the belt breaks or I run out with the hedge clippers threatening to cut the electric cord.

He is just recently recovered from a fringe phase. He found an old glue gun and an insane woman who runs an old upholstery shop on a back alley in Erie, and he began adding fringe trim to every lampshade, nightlight, and ceiling fixture in the house...then he started on the cottage. When I suggested that he was creating a bit of a Miss Havisham atmosphere he finally relented.

He is no longer permitted to "trim" any living plant in the area. Before I learned of the severity of his condition I asked him if he'd trim back the Holly and the Lilac bushes. Twenty minutes later they had all but vanished, save for a few small stumps...the poor devil just can't help himself.

As I'm writing this a few other tidbits have bubbled up for me...like the dentist telling him that he was wearing the enamel off of his teeth...or how many times a normal person could watch " It's a Wonderful Life" ....or listen to Wayne Newton sing " Danke Schoen". ( That's really how you spell that? ). Everytime I'm on line he'll suggest I look up Steve and Edie Gorme, to see when they're performing...which they never are...and never do anymore. We used to take turns picking a concert to attend at the end of the summer, and when it was my turn I forced him to sit through the Verdi Requiem ( not for the feint hearted ), so the next year he picked good old has been Wayne Newton. Half way through the evening the older gentleman sitting behind us said " He stinks".

Now I'm not complaining....just gaze upon the blueberries in the message to follow and imagine the wonderful pies and muffins and pancakes to come. Obsessive Compulsive Disorder can sometimes be a wonderful gift....or just the thing to drive the rest of the world stark raving mad.
  MY SINCERE APOLOGIES FOR NO PICTURE HERE...ALTHOUGH I AM A PERFECTLY ORDINARY PERSON WITH NO UNUSUAL DIMENSIONS TO MY PERSONALITY, I WAS DISTRACTED BY A PANTING DOG, AND AN APPOINTMENT TO PICK UP AN ARC OF THE COVENANT AND A KNEELER.

MANY A TRUTH IS SUNG IN JEST

My high school class reunion is coming up in October....class of 1962. Jeeze.

My friend Ray and I are on the planning committee and a surprisingly high number of our former classmates are sending in their deposits. The list of deceased members of the class is sobering as well...those were also the Vietnam years...with the war just beginning to crank up. My handsome locker mate died early on over in that miserable conflict.

Our team leader in the planning group sent out questionnaires last week for some basic info from all of the class members, and I completed mine last night.

I was impressed that he'd handled the marriage question by asking for our "spouse/partner"s name. I wondered if he had spent some time pondering the wording on that...or if he had assumed that I was obviously not married, or gay, or that his wife had suggested the choice. Since South Catholic was an all boys school, I would have expected a "wife's name" kinda thing.

Funny that it took me a little while to type in my answer. There is this internal homophobia that doesn't go away...maybe it never does. Once I typed in my partner's name, I breathed a sigh of relief and then came out like a rocket when I answered the next question " Can you share a few thoughts about your high school days." .....to which I responded.

" LITTLE DID YOU GUYS KNOW THAT WHEN I CONVINCED OUR SENIOR CLASS TO DRESS IN DRAG AND SING " THERE IS NOTHING LIKE A GUY " THAT YOU'D ALL ACTUALLY BE THE CATALYST FOR ME TO COME SPRINGING OUT OF THE CLOSET A FEW YEARS LATER...THANK GOD I GOT OUT OF GYM CLASS."

So when people think that eventually being able to say  " I'm Gay" is the final moment of hesitation and the grand finale to accepting and embracing who they really are..they just might still have a little surprise or two coming...fifty years later.

underpants

There is something that always strikes me funny about underpants. I guess it's partly because most adults prefer to say underwear, and that's generally how I refer to my uncool Jockeys. Yesterday's paper had almost a whole page in the editorial section written by a post graduate college student and her underpants. The gist of the piece was that she'd left the Mormon church and in spite of her family's disappointment, she has stopped wearing her special Mormon underpants.

I learned that the Mormons called their underpants "garments" and that they consist of a white kinda tee shirt, and longish fruit of the loom pants. Part of the reason for these garments is that it keeps their outfits "modest". Part of the picture is also the "sacredness" of the garments...unlike my family where my brother and I were always warned to have clean underpants at all times because we might be injured somewhere and taken to a hospital where we'd be exposed to the world in our underpants, and my mother could end up embarrased.

Now I know all religions have some kinda quirky ideas...like us Catholics who have St Christopher medals in our cars even though they tossed him off the official saint log a long time ago, or those godly Baptists who picket fallen soldiers funerals, but having my underpants considered sacred seems really unusual. Woof and I were talking about it in bed last night...like how Mrs Romney was able to sort the laundry with all those men in the family who wore exactly the same underpants...maybe by size at least until the boys were all teenagers.

The woman who wrote the article left the Mormon church for an undisclosed reason...but it definitely wasn't about her underpants...she made that clear. When I see Mitt Romney now I hardly listen to what he has to say...I spend more time wondering if he's hot with those jeans on with his special underpants. My partner and I went to a wonderful concert at Chatauqua a while ago when the Tabernacle choir sang...and they were magnificent. While I only thought of them with the Battle Hymn of the Republic, they actually did great old show tunes and a wide range of perfectly blended music. I talked with a few of the handsome young tenors afterwards and told them that they were so good that I'd decided to vote for Romney. One of the singers whispered to me "stick with Obama". I don't know...sacred underpants just might be that one issue that I'll end up running with in the Fall. I hope these thoughts don't offend any Mormons...I also learned that they have a thing called " blood atonement"...or execution. Maybe I should hit the delete key.

HANDY MAN

Neither my father nor I was ever "handy"...you know like being able to fix simple things..or hammer a nail.  First of all we never had the right tool to work with. ( I always used an old hammer with a loose head that would sometimes fly off...until a lesbian friend of mine stopped by and nearly had her head knocked off while I was making some repairs on my outdoor manger...which sent her to her one thousand piece Craftsman set in the back of her truck for a real hammer which she said to keep.
 I suppose my lack of skill was partly due to being afraid of most of the men who lived near us when I was a kid...either they were building really intricate victorian fretwork for their porches which looked like it was going to be a lifelong project, or they were like Beecher who lived next door and could fix all kinds of motors and stuff...all of which looked explosive and capable of exploding.  He'd sometimes invite me to help him in his garage with a giant compressor or something, and he'd yell at me the whole time and tell me about some dirty pictures he wanted to show me from a National Geographic.  The pictures seemed almost as scary as Beecher was.  It wasn't long until I hid from him in our forsythia bushes when I heard his car screeching down the street.  He always had a knife with him and a piece of rope hanging from his jeans. Sometimes I wonder whatever happened to him....actually I'd like to beat him up.
  My Dad and I once tried to build an addition to our dining room table which was actually an old table with two tapebig sheets of plywood on top...(covered of course at all times with a gorgeous lace cloth....after all we weren't exactly savages ).  My partner was entertaining his college friends and as the guest list swelled my dad and I decided we needed an extension for the table. Since we couldn't find anything to work with except for a hacksaw and a hatchet. We both were like two morons sawing...hammering nails (with the hatchet) that were way too big, and both using words we didn't normally say in each others presence, and giving up the whole project about fifty times. HOWERVER...we did make this thing...attached it to the table with duct tape (naturally)...and out came the good china and the over the top centerpieces and the fake silver candelabras. The crowd came and ate like field hands...drank everything in the house, marveling the whole time about the big spread...while I was sweating bullets...imagining an eminent collapse and blood curdling screams. All went well....the crowd finally dispersed, I cleared the table...anxious for the post mortem discussion with my mate, then of course when I slightly moved one of the chairs the whole marvelous addition collapsed in a heap.
   My dad and I never did a project again...but we talked about our big semi achievement for years...and future elegant dinner parties had definite limited numbers for the rest of our lives.

Just in case you missed this the first time!

John Beale, Post-Gazette photos
Dick Marshall and his dog, Woof, sit in the chapel in Marshall has built inside his home in Crafton.
Click photo for larger image.
As the plaster saints, stained glass and carved oak disappeared from Catholic churches, Dick Marshall watched sorrowfully.
"These things brought you closer to God. They're part of our culture, our history," said Marshall, 60. "You used to walk into church and something special happened. It rarely happens anymore."
Marshall now gets that feeling in his own home in Crafton, in the chapel he added three years ago.
The 12-by-29-foot- vaulted space contains eight large statues, seven stained-glass windows, four small pews and nearly two dozen smaller statues, candelabras, fixtures and other items, including holy water receptacles, Communion bells and two wrought-iron votive candle racks.
Adding to the contemplative mood is a stereo playing traditional hymns and Gregorian chants. Overlooking it all is a tiny loft that holds a 1950s Hammond organ. Marshall has been a part-time church organist since he was a teenager and has sung in choirs since age 10. He currently sings in the men's choir at Epiphany Church, Uptown.
"All of this was soothing for me as a kid," he said, looking around the chapel. "I have always loved it and collected it."
One of his first purchases was the organ he had played while growing up in Green Tree. St. Margaret of Scotland Church sold the organ, which is now in Marshall's library, after building a new church in the 1950s.
Few shared his interest in religious items.
"People think it's beautiful, but they don't want it in their homes," he said. "It's been a rescue mission, saving this stuff from people's basements, antique shops, auctions."
The Pittsburgh Catholic Diocese used to auction or sell stained-glass windows and other items when churches closed. Marshall bought one ornate votive candle rack from a Braddock church at an auction about 20 years ago. But for the past 15 years, the diocese has tried to make sure that religious images are sold or donated to other Catholic churches. Still, some items end up on the market anyway.

Marshall noted that many windows and statues bear the names of parishioners who paid for them. He wondered why the diocese doesn't try to give them to the patrons' families.
"These are sacred things that people loved. I'm sure they would love to have them."
People who know of Marshall's chapel sometimes give him items. A large hand-carved crucifix has on its back the name and photo of the nun it once belonged to, from the Sisters of Divine Providence in Ross. Marshall was a driver for the nuns as a teenager.
"They said she had died and had no family. 'Can you give it a home?' " he recalled.
The nuns also have given him two statues, both of which stand in his large, meandering garden. It's filled with a variety of lilies -- his favorite -- and dozens of plants that he brings back by the carload from spring vacations in Florida. Because many are not winter-hardy here, he digs them up in the fall and stores them in his basement.
Marshall has also restored his 1898 brick house in Victorian style. Many of the religious pieces were displayed in the house until he built the chapel three years ago.
"It's really sacred space. Next to the garden, it's my favorite place to be," he said, adding that he comes regularly to meditate. Three Masses have been held there.
"I needed this on 9/11. The church was locked."
Marshall said he decided to build the chapel when he acquired a large altarpiece from a Lutheran church that was too big for any other room. On a friend's recommendation, he hired Rich Riberich of Riberich & Sons in Forest Hills. They had no blueprints, only a small mock-up Marshall had made from cardboard and Scotch tape.
"I had the whole thing in my head my whole life," he said.
His cousin, Jack Repine of Rosslyn Farms, laid the marble tile that was bought by friends as a birthday present for Marshall. His boxer, Woof, likes the tiles' cool surface in the summer and the radiant heat beneath it in winter.
Marshall said only one person has ever reacted negatively to his home chapel: a Christmas party guest who was offended that people were drinking wine while viewing it. But generally, both Catholics and non-Catholics seem to appreciate it, he said.
"People gasp when they walk in the door. One non-Catholic friend said: 'I can't believe your courage, to do something that most people would never do or understand.'
"When some people hear about it, they have this idea that I play priest, that I'm making fun. It's not that at all."
Older Catholics seem to understand best, he said.
"It reminds them of something that in many ways is lost."


Read more: http://www.post-gazette.com/stories/sectionfront/life/religious-items-find-new-home-in-crafton-mans-chapel-590550/#ixzz20QAU6eBg

WHAT I LEARNED FROM GIRL SCOUT COOKIES

"Make new friends but keep the old...one is silver the other is gold". I read that on a box of girl scout cookies about a hundred years ago. (My cousin and I were both cub scouts by the way...but we only stayed long enough to make our birdhouses...we were afraid there were a few too many mentions of going to "camp"...a word that had always terrified both of us...too much emphasis on sports...and competition ...and scary things like dirty old sleeping bags and mean men yelling out orders...plus we were busy planning to put on a production of Snow White in my garage as soon as we could schedule auditions...we were much too busy that year to be bothered with oaths and good deeds. We were already nice little boys...strange little nice boys.)

At four AM this morning I drove down to the Amtrak station to pick up two good friends visiting from Japan. ( At least I vaguely remember driving down there..I was so half asleep that I worried for a few minutes that I'd picked up the wrong people and brought them home. Just kidding. Being the only car on the road seemed really weird...like I was in one of those end of the world movies like "The Road".

I met Lee the first day of my first teaching job in LA in 1970. We've been friends ever since, and her husband Peter replaced me in my teaching position when I left California in a VW bug after my first boyfriend split. Even Tim and I remained friends for the rest of his life. I'm always fascinated by what it is that connects us to another person so quickly sometimes, and for me, usually means that we'll be friends forever. I think it has something to do with authenticity. Sometimes we meet people and just like them immediately....without knowing much about them at all. For me, I think I sense a "realness"...and a transparency...and an honesty about their presentation. Right off the bat, what you see is what you get, like Lee and Peter. As I've gotten older I've also learned that there are lots of people who can really connect...but are unable to sustain the connection. That's a biggie.

Lee and Peter don't live quite close enough for us to hang out together very easily...but Peter takes gorgeous photographs which he sends out periodically, and Lee writes to me faithfully about every ten years. We've always sustained our connection with Christmas cards...or birthday greetings, and my promise to visit them someday. My life is blessed with lots of authentic people...some really UNUSUAL ...but undeniably authentic people. Woof of course helps keep me connected by sleeping with many of my overnight visitors...usually curled up in a single bed with them. My friend Lou from Naples is the only one who honestly likes that. ( So much for authenticity.) Lee has already put her foot down about waking up to dog breath, but I think Peter is hoping for his chance tonight.

So I do make new friends as we all do...and those magical first moments keep happening, as I work pretty hard at sustaining those relationships. My partner has tons of friends as well, many from childhood, and college...but worries that I'm a little too eager to keep expanding our Christmas card list. When he's waiting in the car for me at the Jubilee Food Market near our cottage. he's often worried that I've been chatting too long with the new lady in the Deli...asking me on the way home if I've invited her for dinner after I tell him how much I liked her. Our standing joke is about me inviting some strange little handyman who cut some bushes down for us to our annual Christmas party. I secretly put his name in my address book so he can be a surprise guest at our wedding someday...maybe  as my best man. 

A COUPLE OF SERIOUS QUESTIONS

I have a couple of questions that I would like to hear the presumptive republican candidate for president answer. What would Mitt Romney do about the war in Afghanistan? Would he close the Guantanamo detention camp? Does he still consider transporting a dog on the roof of a car to be an acceptable way to travel? Is he serious about "getting rid" of Planned parenthood? Would he try to reinstate the " Don't Ask Don't Tell" military policy? Would he do anything to deny equal marriage laws in the country? Did he think it was the right thing to do for the US to attack Iraq? Was that preemptive war worth all the American blood and treasure? What would he do about Syria...and Yemen...and Iran? Does he believe that a twelve year old girl who is raped by an escaped psychotic criminal should not be allowed to terminate a pregnancy? What would he do to reform the health care system if he replaced "Obama Care" ?

Now perhaps he has already answered some of these questions, but I'm not certain about what his responses were. I think a lot of independent voters may be unsure of his stances as well. Jobs and the economy and tax cuts are all important....but so are these issues, at least for a guy like me.

A DAY OF DAYS

It finally cooled off enough for Woof to take me for a walk last night. I spent the last few days keeping her cool and keeping my mother comfortable as well. (wrong order?)

Just venturing out to water seemed like a dangerous thing to do as we had a heat index over one hundred, and as Aunt Katie would say..."it really takes the starch out of you". The sweet peas like bright sun but cool air...so the pictures I sent out might represent their last hurrah.

I've taken to planting geraniums (boring as that sounds) anywhere that's hard to keep watered. I guess that's why people plant them in the cemeteries all the time. Seems like Vinca will also take heat and dryness pretty well. All my gardening friends have been bemoaning the fact that we've had so little rain. There's such a relatively small window to get things planted...that I've taken to canceling plans and rescheduling work when we have a good "planting day".

Some of my zinnias have been driven up to the cottage with a promise of growing and blooming by the lake shore only to be taken back home a few times because it was too hot to plant them. They seem to like the ride.

The big gardenia out by the back porch is happy as a lark..about five big blooms right now and the shiniest leaves I've ever seen. Woof thinks it must love the heat. I fertilize it with MIRACID about every two weeks and that seems to be the "trick". Some of the hydrangeas are bluer than blue this year...once again it's the MIRACID that makes them blue. We saw some last night that were a deep deep purple. Same trick...just more of it.

The garden paths are becoming jungle- like right about now. Crepe Myrtles are beginning to show their pinks and reds, and the lilies are still perfuming the whole yard. It's one of those glorious mornings when I'll soon get a call from my cousin who will proclaim this a " DAY OF DAYS ". Woof is ready to finally tackle some weeds...and my partner returned from the lake yesterday with about two billion blueberries that we need to start freezing. It won't be all that long until I take some out of the freezer in January and think back to days like today and wonder where the time went. Somehow shopping with my buddy Bill yesterday and seeing Christmas on display made me wonder if the months might fly by a little less quickly if people would slow it down a bit. Like the guy in the movie said " No wonder they call it the Human RACE ".

MONKEYS

I think my monkey period began when I was about ten years old. Waldameer park was a short walk up a dusty path from my grandmother's cottage in Erie. It's a nice little amusement park that has survived the times, and in spite of a new water park addition, and a harrowing new roller coaster called the " Ravine Flyer ", a lot of the park hasn't changed since I was a kid.

They still have some of the kiddie land rides that I squeezed into until I was about 18, but the monkeys are long gone.

The monkeys lived in a cement shelter surrounded by a moat, which was surrounded by a smooth cement wall that was just the right height for a kid to rest his chin on. My cousin and I went to the park every morning...long before the rides opened....just to watch the monkeys. I think there were about 25 of them, and they entertained us for hours and hours. The big mean ones were the most captivating...as they had bad tempers, especially when we'd toss some food to them that they had to go into the water to retrieve. They'd make a real mean monkey face at us and yell something that was untranslatable. They spent a lot of time grooming each other...picking something or other off their backs and then eating it. My cousin would yell "oooh" and they'd all turn and glare at him and look like they were going to swim over and climb the wall and eat him.

Every once in awhile one would escape...like the one that chased our cousin Janet while Aunt Katie chased him...(so goes the tale that none of the relatives could actually swear they'd witnessed.) Usually the renegade monkey would be caught up in a tree, and I'd tell my cousin that he was the reason for all the fuss...a few of those monkeys had it in for him.

Other than the time a giant tree caught fire when the park had fireworks, the most fun we ever had at the park involved the monkeys. We did ride the Old Mill although we were both afraid that the giant belt that made the boats go up the hill was eventually going to snap and send us hurling over the trees into the monkey pit where we'd not be treated very well.

Since I was always the instigator (crowned as such by my wise godmother)...I brought all things monkey-like into our daily lives at the lake. A lot of the really young kids thought I was part monkey myself...as I could ( AND still can ) make really good monkey noises. My cousin Carole was about two at the time and we communicated mostly like monkeys. She  now has grown children, but a place in her heart for monkeys...maybe because I bought her all sorts of stuffed monkeys instead of teddy bears, and because she once took a real one for a walk on a leash when her unusual neighbors were away. She loves dogs and has always had a couple of them, but I know what she'd REALLY like to have.

The monkeys are long gone...someone said they all went to the space program...but I doubt that. I still go to the park...still obviously think about the monkeys, and spend lots of time looking for old post cards from Erie...just to prove that a kid could have a wonderfully memorable time at an amusement park without ever getting on a ride.

DISTURBING THE PEACE

When I was a kid people had to go somewhere to see the fireworks...like to a local park, or as we got older, to downtown Pittsburgh....and that was once a year...and the fireworks were really special. Now it seems like they're an all year display, and they're all over the place. Woof hates fireworks, as do a whole lot of other dogs. Watching her pant and shake while the local community celebrates for 30 minutes or so is one thing, but when the neighbors are shooting them off almost every night in the summer, it gets real old real fast.

Sipping an ice cold Limoncello on the deck while watching the full moon rise above the lake just looses some of the magic when the cherry bombs start to rattle the cottage and the sky starts to look like Bagdad during Bush's "Shock and Awe" attack. Woof runs for cover, my mother starts looking for the local police phone number, and another neighbor storms out in his pajamas ready to strangle someone because he has to get up for work at six...and it's only July 1st. Since it hasn't rained for weeks, and bonfires are banned all over the township, watching loose rockets of fire land in the trees is a bit disconcerting to peace loving dogs and people.

Somehow I don't remember the supermarkets selling fireworks until recently, nor do I remember having much more that "sparklers" and "snakes" until a few years ago. Woof et al. suggested we pack up and go back to the city last evening...to avoid what promised to be firecracker bedlam on the beach, so we spent the prime explosion hours on the highway...munching on dog biscuits and chocolate chip cookies, arriving just as the crowds were leaving our local park after the fireworks. We were still getting out of the car when the ground began shaking from all over the neighborhood. The sky was orange and red and blue...Woof's ears went back, and I used the name of God in vain.

By midnight the last of the skyrockets had detonated, we all breathed a sigh of relief and climbed into our beds just as the sky began to flash all over again and the thunder made the house shake once again. There's no way I could have been punished that quickly for just saying two words...but then again I've always bet that He/She has quite a sense of humor.

15 things to do today.

This blogger has decided to do the following today instead of writing a blog.

1.  Put his feet up on the deck and have another cup of coffee.

2.  Take Woof for a walk on the beach.

3.  Water the garden.

4.  Have lunch at a lakefront restaurant.

5.  Order a glass of white wine.

6.  Finish reading " Sense of an ending".

7.  Take a nap.

8.  Freshen up for cocktails.

9.  Have dinner on the patio.             

10.Write a letter.

11.Play the piano.

12. Watch the sunset.

13. Write a letter.

14. Throw this laptop into the lake.

15. Fall asleep listening to the waves.

SADIE

My family has always like to play "store". My grandfather had a confectionery store long before I was born, and my family owned four flower shops about 20 years ago where we all worked (that's why I look like this)...and my brother has owned card shops and now three diners with another one set to open in the fall. I think what we all REALLY like is the cash register. My brother once bought one when Hornes Dept. store was closing, and it was as big as a dog house. ( Woof just asked me what a dog house was ). That big monstrosity had ten drawers, hundreds of buttons and keys, and it never worked. It weighed about a thousand pounds and was stored in my basement until some big butch friends were here one day and were coerced into dragging it out to the curb for the junk drive.

My brother is ten years younger than I am, and when he was about nine or ten we used to play store...I was obviously still into it at nineteen or twenty. My brother would set up his little store in our gameroom and I would go up and down the stairs....each time coming to the store as a different character. I of course already had a vast array of costumes that I'd collected (and still do), and I'd change outfits every time I came to his little store. The characters were funny, or unusual....all with different names, and each one would "buy" one of his toys, or knick knacks, pay him, and then return to the upstairs after his little cash register rang them out. Mr Jones might have a cane, and a scratchy voice, and old Mrs Green might have on one of my mother's dresses (if she wasn't home), maybe a cute little number from my new wig collection etc. They were all polite and gentle shoppers. Then there was Sadie.

Sadie wore a reddish pink chenille robe and a stocking over her hair. She'd first screech down the stairs " ARE YOU OPEN?" to which a meek little voice would say "yes " and down I'd roar. Sadie would yell at him about his prices, tell him to speed it up, grab things from all over the room...like the cash register or the chair he was stilling on, and generally disrupt the whole little store before stomping back up the stairs yelling that she'd be back again later.

Now my sense of what was funny as a nineteen year old was evidently different from that of a ten year old. On his 40th birthday, my brother told me of his terror and nightmares about Sadie. I have to confess that I'd never given the whole scenario a thought....for 30 years or so. He admitted that he didn't actually have nightmares, but that he did spend a lot of time thinking about Sadie...that maybe she'd turn up at his graduation, or apply for a job in his card shop when he was first opening the business. I might note here that my brother has also been known to hide in the bushes near his house in a giant green lizard costume...or arrive at his neighbors door with a huge rubber boa constrictor dangling from a garden rake.... Now since he has grown children and is a well adjusted middle aged man,(ahem) I've decided that it's time to dig up that chenille robe and have lunch at his diner one of these days. I'll let you know how that goes. One of his childhood friends told me once that he never remembered Sadie, but that he did remember when I'd sit in a closet in the basement with a turban and a crystal ball and read fortunes. Even I had forgotten about that one. No wonder my mother still sometimes mutters " I don't know where we ever GOT him."

GUNS

When I hear that phrase "guns don't kill people, people do" I just have to scratch my head. The first ten minutes or so of our local news is usually about some young person, usually male, and usually dark skinned who has been shot. This has become so common and familiar lately that I'm more and more inclined to watch Jon Stewart at eleven instead. Seeing the parents and friends of these young kids and their neighbors and friends sobbing and asking "why?" is heartbreaking. While the African American community is certainly over represented in these senseless killings, those of us with lighter skin are also frequently gunned down all over the country every day.

I know the NRA is a powerful force in this country...and that they are very much against almost all gun control legislation. That makes me sick. I wonder how many parents who are burying their kids agree with them. I wonder how fond the parents in Columbine or in Chardon Ohio are of lax gun control laws.

Every night the emergency room doors open as another young victim is rolled in on a stretcher...and many come back out headed for a funeral home.

Trevon Martin would be enjoying the summer if the wanna be cop in Florida hadn't had a gun in his belt. Somehow our "right to bear arms" never seemed to envision the current madness that destroys a couple of lives every night in every major city in the world. I wonder how many mothers who cry their eyes out as they bury their children will ever have an NRA sticker on their cars?

COURAGE

Something about the Sandusky scandal and the Catholic church's pedophilia horror stories seems more than vaguely similar to me. For some reason or other, Jerry Sandusky doesn't seem to "get it"....as though he's not and has never been aware that what he's done to children is somehow okay.

His interview where he can't give an immediate NO to a question about being sexually attracted to young boys was more than just creepy...it was astonishing. He seems to have no concept of the tremendous damage that he's done to children who looked up to him...trusted him...and in many cases loved him.

I think the same is true for the unbelievably large numbers of priests who did similar and worse things to young kids who also trusted and loved these men who eventually injured them for life. For an "at risk" kid, sometimes these men who have preyed on them have also been the only person who seemed to care about them. That's the most twisted part of these crimes as I see them.

I find the whole Penn State mess sounding more and more familiar...people knew what was going on...just as people in the church knew what was going on...and both chose the "humane" response of remaining silent. Humane?

I have a friend who's brother was being molested by a priest years ago, and nothing was done...even his parents didn't believe him..."Father would never do that".......trusted family friend...mentor...kindly old man. That sure sounds a lot like " Jerry?....nah, he's just always horsing around with the kids..."

The witnesses who testified at Sandusky's trial were incredibly brave...and took an enormous risk. The exposure was one thing...but the psychological impact of accusing a man of a crime...when the man in many cases was someone who "saved" you..looked out for you...and treated you better than anyone else did, is another story altogether. These people were traumatized in the past, and may have had a similar experience on the witness stand.

If every person who was in any way physically abused as a child by a trusted adult ended up telling their story in a courtroom, we'd probably see a hundred year backlog of cases waiting to be heard. Speaking up takes it's toll.

SPRINKLERS, WATER BILLS AND TIME

My grandfather would sometimes drive my grandmother crazy by dragging the hose out to water the sidewalks near their home. He said it would cool down the whole neighborhood on really hot days. I think about him when Woof and I sit on the back porch stoop with the sprinkler watering the lily of the valley and a big chunk of the concrete walk. I bought one of those tall sprinkler things that shoots out a giant mist of water, and yesterday I had it in the middle of the garden where the wind was blowing it all over the place. I know a lot of people "mist" their plants. especially ferns, and I kinda think that does more good for the person spraying than it does for the plants.

I take over paying the water bill during the summer, since I'm the gardener in the household, and after several apoplectic incidents when the bill arrived in the past, I've learned to grab it right out of the mailman's hand before anyone sees it. It's been unusually dry...hard on the hydrangeas which are blooming profusely in spite of the drought. I have "nikko blue" and "annabelle" which is pure white. The lilies are in full bloom right now...some are about seven feet tall, while others are barely a foot. Most of them have an intense aroma that scents the whole garden now. Between the lilies and the gardenia and the sweet peas, our yard smells like the fragrance counters at Macys. Everybody in the garden is thirsty, and Woof and I are doing our best to keep everyone hydrated. Woof is a little weary of me with a hose in my hand...she's ever mindful that she could wind up getting a bath without much notice.

I hate to see June coming to a close....it seems like January and February are endless months for me, and May and June fly by in a quick flash. The plants are all settled in by now, my friend Kel says we plant in June, watch them grow in July, and start to harvest in August. Woof and I have already begun to pick cucumbers, so what's up with that.

It's a cool breezy morning with a warm up predicted for the rest of the week, so with weeds aplenty to pull and a dog giving me that "let's go" look, we're off.

CONVERSATIONS OVER FRENCH CUISINE

I've always noticed couples in restaurants...doesn't matter if it's Burger King or a five star joint in a big city. I like to watch the interactions out of the corner of my eye. Early on in my own relationship when I was just getting to know my old shoe of a partner, we were at a nice restaurant chatting away about all the things he was going to have to do and change about himself if he expected to even be considered as someone I might look at twice...(just kidding..sorta), when I took notice of another couple, about our same ages who hadn't said a word to one another since they were first seated at the table. They were both nice looking...of course not nearly as spectacular as my future mate and I, but they just didn't talk to one another all through the evening. I've seen that many many times in the past, and of course there are a million and one possible explanations for what was going on....the most frightening one being that they just don't have anything to say. WAY back then, I remember saying that if we ever got to that point we should make plans to find someone else...move on. So far so good...thirty years later and we're still chatting.

We had dinner at a really lovely French restaurant near Chatauqua on Saturday with two wonderful visiting friends from DC....pristine surroundings, exquisite service and food...one of those summer memories in the making. We were at an outside table on the Victorian wrap-around porch, and I noticed an elderly couple...maybe early eighties, having an absolutely delightful time together...laughing, talking, completely focused on one another, respectful and courteous to the staff. and sipping on white wine. I had the best view of them, and when I commented on the two of them, our friend Julie said that she'd noticed them as well. I went into my above dissertation about couples who dine in silence .As they were leaving and we were debating on another bottle of wine, my partner commented on her beautiful white dress (gay guys do stuff like that)..and they stopped for a moment at our table.

One of us said that they seemed to be having such a nice time together, and arm in arm they announced that it was their 54th wedding anniversary. We had a charming two minute conversation about them taking their thirteen year old granddaughter on an upcoming African safari, and when we wished them well and offered to buy them an after dinner drink, I asked what their secret was. The lady quickly said with a laugh and a tug on her husband's arm, "tolerance".

They laughed, we pondered, and off they went to spend the rest of the summer surrounded by music, art, dance, and inspiration at their summer home by the lake at Chatauqua . Fifty four years together...and still talking, and laughing, and thoroughly enjoying life...together.

MY !

Aunt Coletta would have called this week a " BEESER"...none of us can figure out just what the word really means, but that's what we all call a really hot day. After Aunt Margaret died Aunt Coletta went to live with my cousin's mom...my godmother. I used to visit Aunt Coletta  frequently in Greentree, where she'd be sitting on the sofa, treating the latest schnauzer to a couple of M&M's (in spite of warnings from the entire world). Aunt Coletta would review the latest news with me, how one of her nieces had finally called her...and Aunt Coletta had "laid into her" for not calling sooner. If I commented on the warm weather she might say she had already "shed" twice that day..(taken off a shawl and a sweater). If I reported something that she didn't approve of she might simply reply " MY.." Now that word came to mean that your attire wasn't proper, or your voice was too loud...it kinda meant a general shock or disapproval. These days  if I see my cousin pouring his third cocktail I might catch his eye and simply say " MY....".

Speaking of disapproving, she often referred to one of the distant relatives as " old hag Petterson". I loved it when she'd say " I had to come to GREENTREE to see this". Any of the relatives that she wasn't particularly fond of were referred to as "that tribe". Once when I was visiting her I looked out the window and said " oh here come your relatives from Dormont " to which she replied a very soft " oh hell ".

Aunt Coletta also smoked into her nineties. She'd hide her cigarettes when the priest would come to see her...she was worried that he wouldn't give her communion if he knew she smoked. You see my grandmother, her sister had always said that any girl who smoked would do ANYTHING.

A few years before she died she asked me to take her to see my grandmother's grave...her name was Eleanor, but Aunt Coletta called her "Elnora". The grave is located down somewhat of a steep grade, and we traveled slowly...with her cane and a firm grip on my arm. When we stood before the big granite stone Aunt Coletta sort of bent over very close to it while I stood back to respect her moment of grief. When I moved a little closer to comfort her ,the situation was actually a little different than I had projected. Aunt Coletta was grinding out her cigarette butt on the grave as she said very softly " that's for you Elnora ".

SCHNAUZERS, BOOZE, AND THE AWNING MAN

Aunt Coletta and Aunt Margaret always preferred to be called by their proper names, however we always called them Montie and Tootie when we reffered to them. They were my mother's aunts, my grandmother's sisters. They spent most of their lives together, never married, eventually living with their brother Maurice...who was a "confirmed bachelor". Sometimes I wonder if my gay male friends qualify as "confirmed bachelors" as well. Anyway, Margaret and Coletta were "proper".

They kept a perfect home, collected beautiful things, had lovely china and table linens, lace curtains, and a not too friendly schnauzer...who was always given M&M's as a treat. Consequently they went through an unusual number of schnauzers.

Our mothers regularly visited the aunts, and my cousin and I usually went along. There was always a considerable amount of prep before one of those visits....hair combed with a little Vaseline Hair Tonic, nice clean ironed shirt, clean shoes etc. The visits were nice, not really fun, and highly scrutinized...especially by Aunt Margaret. She was the first woman treasurer of the Potter Bank of Pittsburgh ( which became PNC)...long retired by the time we'd visit her, while Aunt Coletta had been payroll manager at Rosenbaums department store.

The conversations might consist of a twenty minute discussion of why the awning man had come a day early that year to put up the porch awnings, and how they'd consequently decided to keep ten thousand dollars in their checking accounts in case he ever prematurely arrived again. My cousin and I would sit like little princes on the sofa during the visit, on our best behavior while we took little bites of our cookies. One of our wilder relatives had visited the aunts a few weeks before and when they turned on the TV for him he'd decided to lie down on the floor. After a lengthy discussion of what might have possessed him to do something so unusual, it was decided that "there's probably nothing wrong with it...we're just not USED to it".

My cousin and I eventually began to sense another possible side to the perfectly lovely and proper little world of Greenleaf Street. My parents bought a big bottle of Canadian Club one year at Christmas, and with the whiskey purchase a nice black and gold ornament was included, with a big CC in the design. When we visited them after the holidays my cousin whispered to me to "check out the Christmas tree in the front hall". The tree was perfect of course, festooned from the angel on the top all the way to the trunk with a whole lot of those ornaments...a whole lot. We were always accustomed to hearing our aunts say things like " well, maybe I'll have a light little cocktail...just this once".

Margaret and Coletta must have had a hell of a lot of light little cocktails.

Once again for fear of overwhelming my faithful readers, and because it's about 150 degrees where I'm sitting, I'll need a part two for this one! It's even too hot for a light little cocktail these days.

WHERE HAVE ALL THE CATHOLICS GONE ?

I had an interesting discussion the other night with a good family man whose family no longer goes to church. They were always involved with the local Catholic church...he was president of council, and instrumental in creating a children's choir, organizing the fish fry, and even getting the church painted after a successful fund drive. His wife was a Eucharistic minister, festival worker, part time landscaper, and faithful herder of the kids to Mass on Sunday mornings. He was telling me how bit by bit they lost all interest in the parish. It seems that the decree from the bishop that mandated a state police background check for him and for his wife was insulting to both of them. While they understood the logic of this in light of the child molestation that was clouding the entire Catholic church, they resented being investigated while the group of people who had actually perpetrated and covered up the crimes were not. The kids weren't being preyed upon by the cafeteria ladies, or the  Eucharistic ministers.

I go to church if and when I can find a building that doesn't look like a space ship or a moose hall, where the music isn't all Kum by yah sounding, and the priest actually has something to say. This ain't easy to find these days. I've left church in a bad mood too many times...insulted, bored, or with a headache. While I'll never leave the church, I really wonder why so many many many good people will say the same thing...." Well, yes, I was raised Catholic..but..."

AUNT KATIE (2)

We had one of those old 45 record players with the big fat center tube that would repeat a song. When my brother was about 4 or five he'd ride his hobby horse like a maniac for an entire afternoon while the song "Witchdoctor" played over and over and over....and Aunt Katie would be right next to him...ironing. She had the patience of a saint..usually. Other times she'd be overseeing my mother making something in the kitchen and say ' My God woman...that's not how you do that! " She loved all of our dogs..and when any of the relatives lost one she would cry and say that she'd never get close to another animal again....then you'd see her with the new puppy on her lap.

When I graduated from Duquesne I landed a teaching job in Los Angeles. As I was making plans to drive across country, Aunt Katie asked if I'd like some company. I said sure, and the two of us drove three thousand miles together.in a VW bug. She was in her seventies at the time, and when I'd suggest we stop for the night she'd often say we ought to keep driving a little while longer. She also flew back home...first flight in her life.

Upon arriving at my school assignment...and first real job, she came in to meet the principal with me. Before I even had a chance to sit down in his office, she spoke up. " Now do you realize how lucky you are to be getting my nephew to work for you?" He kinda stumbled a bit and then said yes..and Aunt Katie said something about how things would probably work out fine.

Now these are just a few memories of mine about a really big personality in my life ( Aunt Katie was actually about 5' 1".) Every one of my cousins have their own memories of course, and we have great times sharing them. We do still wonder if Aunt Katie really did chase an escaped monkey around Waldameer park when it was trying to grab cousin Janet's skirt. Being that I once saw her use a broom to sweep a garter snake off the porch...I tend to think she probably handled that monkey too.

It's interesting that Aunt Katie never had a lot of things that we all seem to value in our own lives. No spouse, no beautiful home, no nice things, hand me down coats, no car, just enough money to get by, but man, what a rich life. and what a legacy.

AUNT KATIE

   Everybody in the world ought to have an Aunt Katie.  She was my grandfather's sister on my mom's side of the family, but my dad and his mother happened to live upstairs from her when he was about three. She took care of my dad a lot, and eventually got to know my mother because Aunt Katie insisted that everyone should know everyone else. I got to know her because she came to our house every Wednesday and ironed and cleaned and cooked and babysat.  Sometimes she'd bring my cousin Jimmy with her and she'd make us noodle soup for lunch.  She'd usually make the dinner on Wednesday's too, and my dadi would drive her home in the evening.  She had different days where she'd do pretty much the same thing for the other relatives, and more than fifty years later, when we all get together, we still talk about Aunt Katie....like we did Saturday night at my nephew's graduation party.
   We were all sure that we were Aunt Katie's favorite. ( I do know for a fact that I was actually the chosen one).  Actually that was really her gift...to make each one of us feel that we were special.  It's remarkable that Aunt Katie had so little and also such an abundance in her life.  Her face was burned and scared when she was very young when her long hair caught fire, but I never remember any of us even being aware of that. She lived very simply, usually in just a room or two, but we all loved going to see her. That was partly because her house always smelled like fresh baked goods...and that was because she baked all the time. If you just happened to pop in on her on a Sunday morning, she whip up bacon and eggs, fresh rolls just out of the oven, and she'd squeeze a couple of oranges for juice. Lots of us still make or at least attempt to make her Hungarian pull apart.
  I often took her to church on Sundays..."God's not asleep you know". She also show up when I sang in the choir...and I'd see her beaming in the pew. I remember taking her to a piano concert once at Heinz Hall where she leaned over at one point and said (much too loud) " they ought to hear YOU play the piano". Aunt Katie was always on your team...always a steady and encouraging fan.
   While I'm sitting here typing I have Aunt Katie's picture in front of me...and it's a beautiful morning at the lake..I can kinda hear her saying " You'd better get out there and start pulling weeds boy!..so maybe I'll continue tomorrow.  Any tribute to Aunt Katie is going to take more than one blog.  In the meantime..Happy Birthday to someone who lives on in a whole lot of hearts...Aunt Katie, we just never stop talking about you.

FATHER'S DAY

Walking past the Father's Day cards or seeing the ads for gifts for dad's isn't as painful as it was the first year after my dad died. I'm sure those special days are hard for a whole lot of people. My Dad died twelve years ago, and left a big empty space in our family. Being that he had no relationship at all with his own father, his role as dad was extremely important to him. He always tried to give me and my brother all the things that he never had.

My dad worked his whole life...into his eighties....until he got sick a month or so before he died. When I was a kid he worked for the Parker Pen Company.

Those were the days when people still used ink pens. He was also the kingpin of our family flower shops...he could sell anybody anything. If you walked in the door...you left with a purchase. My brother is the same way, while I'd be so afraid of offending someone that everybody was allowed to "think it over". They kept me in the back...arranging the flowers.

My dad didn't always agree with me, but he always respected my commitment to the things that I believed in. He hated the war he was in, and later the Vietnam disaster, but wasn't about to march in the streets, however he was proud to see me head out with my protest signs when I was a young kid.

I have lots of gentle memories of him trying to help me be like the other guys...futilely trying to teach me to play sports...suggesting that I might like to go to summer camp ( my cousin and I thought of going to summer camp the same way we thought about going to Thorn Hill reform school ) It always felt like a threat to me.( Neither my cousin nor I was ever sentenced to one). My dad did insist that I take swimming lessons three times a week at the YMCA when I was about 13. I really balked at the idea until the first day when I got a good look at my personal instructor. After that I was always early for my lesson.

A few years before he died, we were meeting for dinner after I finished facilitating a support group for families of people who were at that time dying from AIDS. It was a really emotional evening for all of us, and I was telling my dad about people talking about things they wished they'd said but never got a chance to say them. I asked him if he thought the two of us had any unsaid words. He said no. So I said " well I do". When he asked what that was, I told him that I wanted to hear him say that he knew I was gay, and that he loved me. His reply was " You know I do"...to which I responded, "that's not what I wanted". My dad then said to pull the car over, which I did, and he looked me straight in the eyes and said " I know you're gay, and I love you". Those were some of the most precious words that I've ever heard. I miss you Dad.

JOHN R. DALEY

There are lots and lots of people who have influenced my life...and that process of course continues today. One person who helped me become whatever it is that I've become, or that I'm still evolving into was my mother's father.  My grandfather was one of the most good natured people that I've ever known. His favorite sayings were " throw your shoulders back" and "keep a stiff upper lip".
He had friends from every walk of life, which was evidenced by the people who showed up at his wake. O'Brien's funeral home was filled with everyone from the mayor of Pittsburgh to a couple of guys in dirty work shirts who knew him from the Oyster House where he'd meet his friends for a beer.  I tease my friend Bill about always talking to people wherever he goes...whether he knows them or not, but that's really a charming way to travel through your life. My grandfather was always looking to discover the best in people...he always told me to "look real hard, and you'll find some good in everyone."
  When we'd pass a beggar on the street he'd always give them money...and he never really had that much. When I told him that my mother said that the person probably was going to use it to buy a drink,my grandfather said maybe that was true but maybe the man really was just hungry. Once we met two nuns downtown and he insisted on giving them money...telling them to buy some ice cream for the whole convent. It wasn't at all unusual for someone to show up at my granparent's door with a message from my grandfather that my grandmother would make him a sandwich. (My aunt Ruthie would sometimes answer the door there and smile very sweetly while she told the person she'd get them some food...as she silently slipped the latch on the screendoor. When I was about ten, my grandfather and I were room mates at a summer cottage, and the first thing he did was fill up a dish with a whole lot of silver change..mostly dimes and quarters, and announced that it was for both of us...to use "whenever we needed some money"  I was the kid with unlimited resources at the penny candy store that summer.
   I think his greatest gift to me was his unconditional acceptance and support. He'd sit forever while I'd practice the Kyrie from the Missa Salve Regina, always saying to "keep at it...you're getting it"...or " atta boy" when I'd show him my kinda okay report card.  I was not the most conventional sort of a kid. ( I can imagine some of you chuckling at that statement)...but whatever I did, my grandfather's unwavering delight and acceptance felt so loving and reassuring that I felt I was allowed to have really big dreams.
  His big Irish heart was broken when my grandmother died.  He said he wouldn't sing anymore after that, and this was heartbreaking for all of us.  He always sang around the piano while my mother played "Galway Bay" or what he said was the "unpublished" verse from "Where the river Shannon flows".  I learned from his profound grief just how deeply love can hurt.  Eventually he did sing again...but there was a little something missing.  Since I'd always kissed him on the cheek when he'd come and go, after my grandmother died he said I should kiss him twice...one for my granmother.
   Now my grandfather died on a cold October day when I was 13. That was a lot of influence..in a short period of time...and a long long time ago, but I try to see things with his eyes when life gets rough and complicated.  I remember as clear as a bell when I stood with my mom and dad beside my grandfather's casket and my mom said " I really loved my mother...but I absolutely idolized my dad.". I think I did also.

TIMMY

Timmy and I were fraternity brothers at Duquesne....Sigma Chi's.  About six of us actually became good friends...(I never forgave the guys who hazed us when we were pledges...somehow beating people never impressed me as the best way to form a friendship.)  Timmy was always the star of the annual carnival shows where he'd consistently steal the show..singing and dancing to songs like "Trouble in River City".
Timmy had a great sense of humor, and a heart as big as anyone.  The two of us opened a flower shop a long time ago and since I was still teaching at the time and he didn't know doots about arranging flowers, he'd hold the fort every day until I got there at 3. If someone came in about a wedding Tim would schedule an appointment for them to meet with me...since I was a graduate of the FLORAL ACADEMY  OF PITTSBURGH.  Ahem. One day I arrived and was alarmed to hear that Tim had made arrangements for a wedding without my expert oversight.  He said that he'd suggested that the bridesmaids carry a dozen gladiola stocks...like giant torches, and since the bride was to be escorted down the aisle by both parents that she ought carry a wreath....so she could lock arms with both of them..and perhaps "ring" one of the bridesmaids when she tossed her bouquet.  That wedding actually took off without a hitch...except for the unusual floral selections.  Timmy looked at me as we taped down the crash and said " SEE?"
  When Tim had to work bartending on a New Years Eve, he asked me to come to the bar to keep him company. I should have known better.  First as the bar began to get busy, he asked if I'd help him just serve beer from the tap, and I did. It wasn't long before I was serving everything...with no experience..and with no idea of where Timmy had gone. At one point I spotted him partying with a group of people..while I was running the now very busy bar. I'd periodically yell to him about the price of a gin and tonic...and he'd say "who's it for?"  He would then glance at the person and maybe say "a dollar"..or if he didn't like the patron's looks he might say "two fifty".  I never did get the swing of things that night...but people seemed to feel sorry for me...were mostly patient, and told me how to make their drinks.  I ended up workking with him for quite a few months, and met his many and varied customers...from Bullia who was about 75 years old and was homeless...living under the Panther Hollow bridge...and would put a few nickles down on the bar and order a beer, to Antoinette who would get drunk and dance on the bar with a baton while his mother would cheer and clap for him, to Anna who was a waitress in a classy resturant and would bring us gourmet snacks. They all loved Timmy, and were willing to give me a chance. When a new customer would come in the door Timmy would shout " Not YOU again!"  He made that crazy old bar famous.
   Timmy was a letter writer, a guy who spent many a Thanksgiving serving dinner to people who had nowhere else to go in a local resturant, and the guy who could bring any group of people to life. He died on the 13th of June...much too young, and much too quietly. His family knew that he and I had been friends forever, but requested that I not speak at his funeral. They were afraid that I'd somehow embarass them.  What turned out to be embarrasing was the cold and distant service that actually happened. Nothing personal...nothing about the people like Carol and her family who loved him and took care of him when he needed it most...of the friends who drove for hours to pay their respects...or the tears in the eyes of the homeless old woman who sat in the back pew. He was carried into church by people who he happened to be working for at the time...while his fraternity brothers sat alone. Tim was a wonderful man..who went out with a whimper when he deserved a bang. I wasn't allowed to give a eulogy that day...so Tim...this is for you.

FIRST THINGS FIRST

So as I turn the key once again I'm still awed by the vast expanse of the lake.

We tend to use the side door and come right into the "lake room", almost all glass with a sliding glass door out on to the outside upper deck. I have to of course open that door immediately so that Woof can be the first one to step out and check out the beach. We added all the glass and the deck soon after we moved in, and the whole area looks and feels like the view from the deck of a ship. We have four cherry red umbrellas that attach to the rail for shade...( I bought them at a ninety percent discount sale...and when they're all open we often get mistaken for a Chinese restaurant or a beach cafe...but what the hell.) That deck is great for coffee in the morning, and a Lemoncello while the sun sets. Of course I've added flower boxes with matching red geraniums just like any respectable gay man would do.

Woof expects a walk down the wooden steps to the beach before I even unpack the twelve matching pieces of Amelia Earhart luggage from the car, and of course I oblige. She's finally outgrown (for the most part) the temptation to find a delicious dead fish to nibble on, and is happy to prance through the water as we take in the fresh breeze and cool water.

Next is a trip to the garden across from the house...with almost an acre of land...mostly in full sun, I feel like I have an extravagant blank slate of ground to grow anything I can imagine. Scott is a local farmer who plows a big area for me every year, and I plant about three dozen tomatoes, zucchini that grows as big as  torpedos sometimes from week to week, eggplants, cucumbers that end up as pickles, broccoli that my friend Kel shared his salad recipe for, and all kinds of peppers. I grew an artichoke last year that cost me about eight dollars...and I couldn't quite justify the cost, so I'll wait till I get to Jerusalem someday to learn about them.

The flower garden keeps expanding...and expanding. It begins under a big old iron arbor, and consists of winding grass paths that start where I planted about a gazillion daffodils, to a rose garden dedicated to my partner's mom, with a little plaque and surrounded by a little black fence. The paths wind around curly willow trees, through a cedar arch and past a hundred year old life sized statue of Our Lady of Victory. She guards the shasta daisies. Last year there was a semi circle of night blooming jasmine that began with a tiny plant from my friend Elliott about 30 years ago.

Woof and I end up checking the apple trees and bemoaning the fact that the birds eat every last sweet cheery before we ever get even one to taste. The pear tree is still young, but we'll get a few plums this year. As we wind our way out of the garden we pass the English climbing roses, the sunflowers that will tower over everything by August, and past the lilacs that seem to love the brutal winters on the lake.

After checking out the grounds as we like to say, Woof is content that all is well and she settles down on the deck to nap. I on the other hand try to decide where in the world to begin weeding, but before I start to make those critical decisions I usually pour myself a glass of wine, sit back with my feet up on the railing...and contemplate not doing anything at all. Who knows.

A TRIP TO THE COTTAGE

My mother has been traveling the two hours or so from Pittsburgh to Lake Erie on weekends ever since she was born...first to rented cottages with an entourage of her parents and various aunts and uncles, and later with my Dad to his mother's cottage.."the Iroquois". She now comes with us on many a Friday afternoon...with Woof attempting to sit on her lap as she did as a puppy.

My favorite way to leave is with nothing but my car keys, but my mother's "luggage" is another story altogether. I told her that she needn't bring what one might pack for a trip on the Auquatania for a summer in Europe....it's just a weekend at the lake....but alas, we eventually get on the road. Part of what takes a bit of time is the fact that she packs us a lunch.  There's something about that  which is so familiar, and such a treat...and something that only happens when she comes along...but something that I treasure and have locked away somewhere as one of those little things that people don't do very often of...but should.

It's an easy and beautiful drive on a good road that traverses typical Pennsyvanian landscapes of lush greenery and purple, pink, and white wildflowers. The rest areas are all landscaped and pristinely clean. We usually make one stop for my mom and I to stretch and for Woof to check out who else has been to the pet area. There's a tower on the courthouse in Mercer that we've all tried to be the first to spot along the way. The first one to see it always says " I SEE IT ! ". I remember doing that as I kid, and even when I make the trip alone I still say it when it comes into view. At one point the highway goes across a big swamp...my dad used to tell me that it was so deep that they'd never been able to locate the bottom. I think of that when I drive there too...sometimes my dad made things up.

We've had our cottage for 16 years now...( the best thing my partner and I have ever done together....except maybe when we spent his birthday in a remote little cove on Capri stretched out on white chaises between the rocks while the waves crashed all around us and the waiter returned periodically to see if we wanted another glass of wine). Anyway the trip is easy, the landmarks all familiar, and sometimes includes a stop at Eddies famous hot dog shop which has been there since 1947. My friends from Japan came to visit a few years ago and I think it was the highlight of their trip.

We exit the highway by Paschske's Mums...which has been there for eighty years. I buy cuttings in May and by Fall I have about ten million plants. Woof begins to come to life about there...and as we travel the last few miles through the vineyards she knows where she is. As I pull into the driveway, there's a feeling that I only get when I pull into that driveway. Whatever has been challenging with my job, or my busy days at home ,seems to just vanish into thin air as I put the key into the door. It's as exhilarating each time as it was the very first day that we owned it. I marvel at the vastness of the water, the ever present fresh air coming off the lake, and the inescapable feeling of being the luckiest guy in the world.

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE STREET

Tommy Maley lived across the street from us and he used to crawl out of his bedroom window and sit on the roof in his underpants and smoke cigarettes. He was kinda weird and kinda cool. His parents seemed pretty much oblivious, and our side of the street was discreet. Aunt Cassie and Uncle Al lived next door...he was quiet and nice and she was the neighborhood gossip machine. She had bright orange hair, and insisted that everyone call her "aunt". Actually only the kids called her that, even though she didn't really do anything to deserve the title. My Aunts were all nice...and gave me things, and Aunt Cassie just talked about people. When I'd come home with a juicy tidbit about old Mrs Wilson having a boyfriend, my mother would say..."where did you hear that....Cassie Winters? "

The Riley's next door lived in a very busy house. Bill, Tom, Jimmy,Jerry, (twins),Lulu,Lizzy, and Monkey. (I'll be damned if I can remember the little one's real name...they just called her Monkey). Mrs Riley was French Canadian, and a really nice lady, while Mr Riley seemed to mostly go to work or sit reading the paper. Bill was the first boy other than mean Beecher or Tommy in the underpants that I got to know. Bill spent a lot of time talking about California where they used to live or Lionel trains. More about him later.

Vinnie and Jimmy lived next to them....nice kids who played with the Riley's while their mothers drank coffee together until they had a big fight. I think it was about dirty diapers or all the kids or something, but even speaking their names in the same sentence would result in someone saying "shhh".

Mrs Gore had two kids...Bobby and Beverly. I am absolutely sure that what everyone from that neighborhood would remember about her was how she would call her kids. It was like BOBBY.....BOBBY GORE in a really loud sing song kinda way....then BEVERLY.....BEVERLY GORE. We'd all laugh when we heard her, then Bobby and Beverly would turn red and go home.

Susie Edgar lived next to the Humphries. I have nothing to say about them because nobody ever saw them either. Now my mother and I just had a discussion about whether or not Susie also had a duck....like my friend in Erie.

I find it hard to believe that I knew two people who had ducks...c'mon now...it's a little unusual for city people to have ducks. The scariest thing however is that I was thinking it's name was also Margaret. Then again I got 10 emails last week from two friends in Girard Pa who found duck eggs in a public pool and took them home and now they have nine ducks. The mother ran away. ( no wonder..maybe Mrs Riley should have done the same). Ducks Ducks Ducks.

Rounding out the block were the Larsens and the Shields. Beecher bullied the Larson boy...who was really nice and became a Franciscan brother...he sent me a Christmas card from Sweden this year. His sister was pretty, and I think I might have gone to her prom. Bobby Shields was our friend, and not just because his mother gave us real popsicles instead of Kool Aid ice cubes. The only problem with Bobby was that we suspected his older brother of being a member of the much feared Panther Club. They were the ones who roamed our woods and threatened to beat us all up or kill us and eat us or something.

Bobby never mentioned his brother...but his ties to organized crime made us all wary.

It was a fun neighborhood...parents all visiting one another on Christmas day, and acting like crazy 30 year olds (which they were) on New Years Eve. They barricaded the street once a year for a big block party, and many of us kids have stayed in Christmas card contact ever since. Woof and I were sitting on the porch last night watching the lightning bugs, and I told her about doing that as a kid...a long long time ago....with another dog also named Woof. She seemed more interested in trying to catch a lightning bug than in hearing about any other dog in my life. She's always had a jealous streak.